Free Falling From a Work In Progress
by Mistiec
Summary: Eight years after being recruited into the NSA, Special Agent Santana Lopez, aka Molly Chambers, is given a new assignment: track down the stolen Government Intersect and protect it from harm.
1. Prologue

**TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress  
>AUTHOR: Misty Flores<strong>

GENRE: Glee, but borrows from some of the spy mythology from 'Chuck'  
>PAIRING: SantanaBrittany, Rachel/Quinn  
>RATING: M<br>WORD COUNT: ~ 56,000  
>SUMMARY: Eight years after being recruited into the NSA, Special Agent Santana Lopez, aka Molly Chambers, is given a new assignment: track down the stolen Government Intersect and protect it from harm.<br>SPOILERS: 3.04 'Duets' and beyond pretty much destroyed my head canon for this, but let's move on and pretend it didn't.

* * *

><p><em>Free falling from a work in progress<br>Free falling from a life on hold  
>There has never been a time<br>When I didn't want you_  
>- 'The Good Witch of the North', Everclear<p>

**PROLOGUE**

A few months into their senior year, in between rehearsals for a Glee number, Rachel had asked Brittany a question that Brittany privately thought was really, really stupid.

"Don't you get jealous?" Rachel asked, arms crossed and brow furrowed. "Like, at all?"

It had come out of the blue, and Brittany, in the middle of stretching for a featured dance solo, had been taken off-guard. "What do you mean?"

"You and Santana," Rachel clarified. Brittany only stared. A flush started on Rachel's cheek, before the other girl's voice dropped as she came in closer. "You know... "she continued, like she was sharing some major secret. When Brittany arched a confused brow, Rachel's eyes rolled to the back of her head. "Aren't you guys dating? Like officially?"

Her body had begun to feel the warmth of her exertions, and when sweat prickled at the back of her neck, Brittany lifted her blonde hair off her shoulders, trying to cool herself. Across the room, her best friend was in the middle of running her finger along the collarbone of one of Glee's newest members, Jimmy Whatshisname.

Brittany only remembered his first name because the last time she had made out with him, he had been particularly peeved that she hadn't actually bothered to learn it.

Brittany hadn't quite had the heart to tell him it was because he honestly wasn't worth the effort.

Cute guy, but a horrible kisser.

Still, it wasn't surprising to see Santana play at the seduction. An exaggerated laugh that was too loud to be genuine erupted from Santana's pouty lips, and when Brittany arched a brow, Santana seemed to feel it. Brown eyes slid across the room and locked with hers.

The twinkle in them was intimate. 'He's such an idiot', they seemed to say, and Brittany found herself smiling back.

Rachel nudged her, and Brittany blinked, attention drawn back to the shorter girl. Rachel stared at her expectantly.

It took Brittany a moment to remember what the question even was.

"I guess?" she said, and it must have come off as unsure, but honestly it just seemed stupid. Dating was one of those weird abstract terms that meant flowers and sloppy kisses in the back of cars and guys getting upset when they realized just because they could watch her and Santana make out didn't mean they would have a threesome with them.

She sucked in a breath, raising her arms up over her head and exhaling, feeling her muscles stretch as she bent low and pressed her palms on the wooden floor.

"So doesn't it bother you?" Rachel said again, voice shrill even above the rush of blood to Brittany's head. "Her flirting like that with random people?"

"Why should it? Jimmy's cute."

Rachel just stared at her like she was a freak on display at the circus. "So you don't get insecure. At all."

Once again, Brittany found herself battling a sigh of irritation. "Guys are fun," she explained, and at the very least, Rachel should have gotten that, though her on-again, off-again angst fest with Finn seemed anything but.

"But you're together."

Brittany lifted up, twisting her torso as her legs spread, inhaling deeply. "So?"

"So you don't get jealous."

"Of what?"

Rachel's face grew oddly red. "Of that?" she whispered fiercely, jabbing her hand in Santana's direction.

Brittany hands tangled together above her head, as she leaned over and stretched her side. "Of what?"

"Of that?"

Again, Brittany looked. Jimmy Whatshisface looked like he was one step away from proposing. Or more likely, asking for a blowjob.

"Rachel, you're not making any sense."

"I'm not making any sense?"

"And you're kind of blotchy. You should fix that before Finn sees."

When the color drained from Rachel's face, and she swiveled on her Mary Janes and stomped away, Brittany hid a smile and exhaled in relief.

Later, she mentioned the conversation to Santana.

Her best friend, super hot with her hair tumbled over her shoulders and naked except for her bikini briefs, only arched an irritated eyebrow. "Don't worry about it, Britt," she said, voice coated with sleep. "They just don't get it. You should feel sorry for her."

Brittany didn't doubt that. Rachel was a walking Gleek tragedy.

She shifted on the bed, turning into her stomach and pressing the side of her face into the pillow. "I guess."

Tan fingers skimmed along her bare arm, light as a feather, leaving goose bumps in their wake. "She doesn't get it. None of them do. They don't get that all that stupid drama doesn't matter with us."

Brittany's smile curved into the pillow. "Because we're smarter than that."

Santana's grin was smug, damned cocky and sexy as hell. "Exactly. We got past all that. We're gonna be with each other for the rest of our lives, Britt." Santana said this with certainty; it was fact. "Meanwhile Finn and Rachel will be lucky to make it to prom."

Brittany considered that. "That's true," she agreed.

She had known since she was eight that it was always going to be her and Santana, in some form or another. Brittany didn't dream about the perfect husband or houses or picket fences. Her future instead seemed a muddle of uncertainty, except for the constant presence of Santana. Ever since she wrote her name on Santana's forearm with black magic marker, pressed a kiss to the corner of Santana's mouth and bossily told a skinny, short girl with wide round brown eyes that that meant that she belonged to her now. Forever.

Santana's fingers had trailed all the way down the curve of her forearm to her fingers, and Brittany imagined the block letters stained into Santana's arm, wobbly and misspelt, but impossible to misinterpret.

Suddenly engulfed with warm, sweet emotion, Brittany trapped Santana's fingers, tangling them with hers. Pushing up to her elbows, she carefully spread Santana's hand against the pillow and with her finger, began to retrace the letters, re-branding her best friend.

Santana watched with a small, sweet smile on her face.

Brittany grinned as she scratched lightly at Santana's skin. "You know what this means?" she whispered, laughter in her voice. "This means that you belong to me. Forever and ever."

When she glanced up to look at Santana, there was moisture in those deep brown eyes.

It wasn't surprising. Santana did like to cry at the drop of a hat.

Brittany bent forward, until her mouth pressed against the open palm, and placed a loving kiss against the skin.

She kept going, dropping feather-light kisses on the underside of her wrist, up her forearm, into the crook of Santana's neck and breathing in the musty, human scent of her underarm.

Brittany wasn't smart, but she didn't think she was dumb either. There were a lot of things that she was unsure of, and a lot of the world didn't make a whole lot of sense to her. At times, it was frustrating, to feel like she knew so little.

But there were things she knew absolutely. Like how to feel the perfect pop of a beat. How to roll her body in such a way it looked like art in motion.

And she knew, without any sense of doubt, that no matter what the circumstances, it would always be her and Santana, for the rest of their lives.

With that knowledge came the freedom from everything else that seemed to bog down Rachel and Finn and Quinn and Puck and all their classmates.

They didn't have anything like that.

Brittany didn't believe in soul mates even though she knew Santana did. It just sounded way too convenient. But as her mouth opened against Santana's, and Brittany sighed in contentment, shifting against Santana, settling into the deep kiss, Brittany understood that in this, she was very lucky.

Santana was right about Rachel; Brittany did feel a little sorry for her.

* * *

><p>The buzzing whir of Coach Sylvester's small protein shake filled hand-held blender was a sound that had always struck fear deep into Santana's heart.<p>

Even as a senior, even as Captain of the Cheerios (a title she damn well deserved after literally bleeding her soul out to wrestle it away from Quinn Fabray), there was nothing quite like that sound to put a deep chill in Santana's bones, like an icy hand clasping around her throat.

And to some random nobody who didn't know better, maybe that seemed a bit dramatic, but four years under the servitude of Sue Sylvester had given Santana the distinct impression that her Cheerios Coach was an authentic bad ass mother fucker who had actually like, killed some people back in her special forces days.

When the Coach eyed her over the expanse of her cluttered desk, wrinkled her nose, and pressed her finger down onto the button on her cup that set the buzz going, Santana had to palm her knees not to wince.

"Here's the part where I'm supposed to tell you that I'm proud of you," Sue Sylvester began suddenly, fingers drumming on her desk top, "Of all the accomplishments that I've helped you achieve. Any other teacher would have told you that as captain of the Cheerios, you've assisted me in taking the squad to brand new heights and that when you begin your full ride to Berkley you'll succeed in ways you've never even imagined." Sue paused, letting the words sink in. "Except I'm not to bother because you and I both know that is a complete crock. There's only one word I can use to describe your term as captain and that would be 'FAILURE'." The cup slammed on the desk, liquid sloshing inside of it.

Santana's legs clamped together, a defense mechanism to keep them from knocking together.

"This year, as captain, you only had one job, the same job you always have and the same job you always _fail_: destroy that rancid little tumor called Glee Club. Has it been destroyed? Quite the contrary. They nearly took Nationals this year, and meanwhile, my Cheerios Squad has remained mediocre. Instead of focusing on berating the new recruits, breaking them into the Nationally-Ranked Cheerios they were meant to be, you instead turned into a hormonal, crying, sexual predator who got a boob job, took my best dancer to prom and sang a duet with Rachel Berry that helped Glee Club win Regionals." Sue's blue eyes glittered at her. "_Pathetic_. I should make a call to the director at Berkley right now; take that scholarship away from you on principal alone."

Anyone else: Mr. Schuester, Principal Figgins, anyone, and Santana would have gotten up and walked out the instant they opened their mouth. If it had been Ms. Pillsbury, all she would have had to do was scowl, or lick her finger and wipe it across her desk, and the freakish guidance counselor would have burst into a hysterical germaphobic fit.

But this was Sue Sylvester, who had made the call that had gotten her recruited in the first place, and Santana already had two airline reservations and fought off four potential freshmen for a one bedroom apartment on-campus for her and Brittany.

They were so close to getting out of Lima. After four years of taking Sue Sylvester's shit; of treading the fine line between being popular and trying to actually be happy; of being ruthless and calculating and continually surprised at her own weaknesses (Show Choir. Singing. _Brittany_.) , freedom was less than a month away.

It would be just like the Coach, to get her the scholarship, give her the captaincy... and then take it all away from her out of sheer spite.

And she couldn't lose her scholarship. Her Daddy had been a Duke alumni, and the decision to go to Berkeley with Brittany had been a point of shame and annoyance by her father, who refused to see 'Duke's cheerleading team sucks' as a valid argument.

Santana dug her nails so hard into her thighs she could feel the tips bend into the flesh. The only time she could remember bringing herself to beg for anything was during sex (and even then, only really awesome sex, and only with Brittany), but pride had no use with Coach Sylvester. She'd get on her knees and lick her shoes if that's what it took.

"Coach Sylvester-" she began.

"Shut up," Coach Sylvester snapped. "You're nothing but a disappointment, Santana. A waste of space. And I take that personally." Sue's nostrils flared; her expression pure disgust. "But there is a way you can make it up to me, and maybe finally live up to that dust speck of potential you might still have."

A green folder suddenly slid across her desk, skidding over the edge and tumbling into her lap.

Terrified to say a word, Santana obediently reached for the file and lifted it. Her eyes narrowed uncertainly at the logo emblazed on the front. "The army?"

"The Special Forces. A very elite, very private training program that is invitation only. I train my Cheerios like soldiers, Santana, and the army takes notice. We've maintained a very cordial relationship since my service. They understand I recruit under the strictest standards, and as it saves them a bit of time, if there's a particular Cheerio with promise, my recruits become their recruits."

"You want me to join the army."

"It wasn't going to be you at first," Sue felt the need to tell her. "I had my sights set on Fabray, but she has proven to be nothing but a disappointment. Went and grew herself a heart, like the tragic demise of what would have been my personal hero, _the Grinch_. And while _you_can't keep your legs closed long enough to ride a luge, you at least know the meaning of the word contraceptive." Sue leaned back in her chair, studied her with a calculating intense look that made Santana feel suddenly as if she was on an auction block. "You're ruthless when you have to be, Santana. You take orders, but don't question them. And your loyalty to Brittany, even when she's acting like the lead character in a Sesame Street production, proves you can be trusted. You join the reserves while you're at Berkeley. Special training two weekends a month. The army covers everything this scholarship doesn't. In return, you give them and this country your heart and soul."

To say she was flabbergasted wouldn't even begin to describe her state. Santana felt as if a bomb had gone off in her brain, leaving her without even the capacity to sputter the response that Sue Sylvester was so obviously waiting for.

"You want me to join the army," she found herself repeating helplessly.

Sue Sylvester just lifted a brow. "Understand that this is an honor, Lopez. I don't recommend just anyone. The girls I send are considered to be particularly ruthless; perfect soldiers. I will take it very personally if you are anything but." A finger pressed down on the plastic bottle, and the buzzing resumed. "Now get out."

Weak-kneed and mind reeling, Santana found herself stuffing the green folder into her red and white backpack.

It was the only thing she could think to do with it at the moment.

Just outside, in the hallway, there was a figure of a cheerleader, toned and lean, head lifting and pony tail bobbing as blue eyes glinted in her direction.

Santana's shoulder fell against the closed office door; she felt the cold from the glass seep into her bare skin.

"Wha'd she say?" Brittany asked, all concern and curiosity. Her lower lip snagged between her teeth nervously.

Santana shifted the backpack on her shoulder, and though she couldn't quite manage a reassuring smile, she did find the strength to push off the door and head toward her best friend.

"I'll tell you later," she said, because to even think about trying to explain all this in the middle of a hallway in a way that even remotely made sense was beyond the scope of her imagination. Brittany's brow furrowed, ready to protest, but Santana's hand reached forward, pinkie hooking against Brittany's. "We're late for Glee."

She tugged, and then, after a moment, found herself inhaling unsteadily and twisting her palm against the smooth hand of Brittany's, until their digits tangled completely, palm against palm, in an interlocking intimate hold.

Santana's hand was sweaty and clammy; she gripped Brittany's hard. When they reached the choir room, she didn't let go.

Maybe that was her give-away to Brittany, because when she reached for the door knob, ready to turn it, Brittany kept going. Taller and stronger than Santana, Brittany used the momentum to tug hard, jolting Santana nearly off her feet .

"Britt-"

Fingers locked, clamped down. "We're ditching."

"Britt-" Santana's voice seeped with irritation, but the resistance grew weaker, mostly because Santana knew that Brittany wasn't exactly easy to dissuade once she put her mind to something.

And it was easy to let Brittany lead her, feel her strength flow from their joined hands in unseen energy, steeling Santana when she felt her very world tipped on its axis.

It was Brittany's secret power; her ability to take anything that came at her, from Coach Sylvester's most punishing workouts to a math test she had no hope of passing, with a steady breath and a crooked smile on her face. She had the strong body, all toned muscle and defined abs, built for performing backflips and splits as easily as walking.

Santana had always been the weaker one. Her form was skinny; her breasts had always been too small. Her attempt to remedy that with an augmentation had crashed and burned hard, and it got her noticed, but for all the wrong reasons. For all the rumors about her temper and her propensity for shoving girls who got in her way, uncontrollable tears had bubbled over more than once, and almost always it was Brittany's hand that enclosed hers, squeezing reassuringly.

She was led to her own car, a cherry red Volkswagen given to her by her father. Brittany fished her keys out of her backpack and pressed the button, shifting the locks open.

They were used to doing this. From the day Santana had gotten the keys from her proud papa on her sixteenth birthday, Brittany had been dragging her into the back seat of her car. Exploratory make out sessions that morphed into heavy petting and then into actual sex, Santana rocking astride Brittany, with shirts shoved up and bras shoved down, tangling limbs and bumping elbows and once, kicking out her back seat's drink holder.

This may have been the first time that Brittany had ever pulled her into her own back seat and didn't immediately plunge her tongue into Santana's mouth.

Instead, Brittany let go of her hand, and wiped her palm hard against her Cheerios skirt, gazing at her with intense scrutiny; the look of a concerned best friend, ready and willing to offer support against the worst that Sue Sylvester had to offer.

"What did she tell you?" Brittany asked, breathless. "Did she cancel your scholarship?"

A muted Santana only shook her head miserably.

Fingers reached for her own, tangled between them, until Santana's arm spread across the seat. The gentle, reassuring contact was enough to cause tears to spring into her eyes, blurring her vision and making them burn.

"Santana," she heard Brittany begin, and it caused an actual physical reaction. Something like word vomit that clenched her stomach and caused the explanation to come bubbling up, tumbling through her lips in a slobbering, blubbering confession.

She told her everything, because she always told Brittany everything, and even as she confessed to all Sue Sylvester had told her in her office, terrifying her with the buzzing of her protein shake and calculating, cold stare, she couldn't help but think it sounded absolutely ridiculous.

It was just all too silly to believe, and when the words ended; when the explanation ran out, Santana, feeling empty and lost, tightened her trip on Brittany's hand, seeking out her anchor.

Brittany's head cocked in a move that reminded Santana dimly of a perplexed golden retriever. The folder, which had been brought out and placed in Brittany's lap, was opened, and the papers had long since spilt out, but Brittany didn't seem to make any more sense of it than she did. "Sue wants you to join the army to be like, this super soldier, because she thinks you'll be awesome at it?"

A dry, morbid laugh erupted. Santana nodded her head weakly. "Yeah."

Brittany's lips pursed. Quietly, she regarded Santana for one long moment, before a smile broke out onto her face and she said brightly, "That's awesome."

Granted, Santana was more than used to Brittany doing exactly the opposite of what was expected of her, but even so, she could only stutter dumbly, "It is?"

"Yeah, of course it is!" Crystal eyes shone brightly; the grin on Brittany's face gleamed with teeth. "Santana," she continued authoritatively, "Being a soldier is like... the most amazing thing you can do."

Once again, Santana's brain felt sluggish, refusing to compute exactly what Brittany was trying to tell her.

"It is?"

"You're protecting America!" Brittany's breathless statement, her crooked, wide smile, and the way her eyes shone at her, told her she completely believed that to be true.

And God, Santana realized, it actually made sense. Brittany had always been unflinchingly patriotic. The time they had done it with 'Team America: World Police' blaring in the background had been some of the best sex they ever had, despite the fact that Brittany humming along to 'America, Fuck Yeah' and tonguing her clit to the rhythm of the bass had been more than a little distracting.

Santana's eyes drifted down to the papers that had spread in Brittany's lap; pages and pages of fine print that probably included signing away her soul.

It suddenly hurt to breathe.

"Britt," she managed, struggling to keep her tone even, patient. "It's not like make believe." Brittany only stared. "What she wants me to do," Santana continued, fingers clenching around Brittany's. "It's dangerous. It's not gonna be like an episode of South Park or a Looney Tunes cartoon."

"I know that," Brittany snapped back, sounding insulted.

Santana shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek to hold herself together. "It's not like I'm going to get some fake package from ACME and then when it explodes just end up with singed hair and soot on my face. I'll be like, _dead_."

She must have given something away in the way she said that, because the bright expression on Brittany's face faded slightly. Crystal eyes darkened in thought as her gaze flitted from Santana's fingers, tight and white at the knuckles thanks to her death grip, to the tears liquid in her eyes.

"Are you scared?"

As soon as Brittany verbalized it, diagnosed the numb, overpowering emotion that was taking hold of her, Santana suddenly understood it. It blazed over her in a wave of fear that nearly made her nauseous.

"I'm not scared." It wasn't true. Santana had very few safe places in her world. One was right here, with Brittany. The other was with her father, who loved her and spoiled her and turned her into a bitchy Daddy's girl and loved her for it.

What Sue had asked her to do... actually demanded that she do... it could take away all that, and leave Santana on her own.

And she wasn't good enough for that. She wasn't strong enough for that.

Brittany regarded her, and Santana exhaled, losing her false bravado to crumple into herself. "I'm terrified," she admitted, helpless.

Hands suddenly spread across her forearms, tugging her into Brittany's space. "Come here."

"Brittany-" she whispered, head shaking slowly, breath going ragged when Brittany's mouth pressed wetly against her neck, legs opening to let Santana sink down on top of her. "Brit-"

Arms spread tightly over her shoulder blades, keeping her pressed intimately against Brittany. Santana's eyes fluttered as the muscles tightened, then relaxed, instinct overcoming emotion as Brittany's lips caught her left earlobe and bit lightly.

"I just want you to feel something else for a minute," she heard whispered in her ear with a soft puff of breath that caused an immediate prickle of goosebumps. Lips skimmed along her cheekbone in a feather-soft touch before Brittany's mouth settled against hers.

Brittany's kisses were soft; seeking. The tender way her lips fit to hers, opening and closing against her own with a soft, loving sigh, seemed borderline chaste, and the irregularity of it made Santana's insides tremble suddenly, because their kisses usually carried behind them the significance of lust. It was easier that way, to let the overtaking power of _want_ and_ need_dim away everything else.

When Brittany kissed her with a finesse and care that signified love, it broke her. Already emotional and fragile in a way she only ever was with this girl, Santana found herself splintering. She lost herself in a whimper and a velvet tongue, tilting her head and embracing Brittany's tenderness.

_It's just making out_, her mind told her. _You've done this a hundred times._

And she had. With many, many people. So had Brittany.

Santana had never wanted to understand why it felt so different, fucking special, when it was Brittany shifting against her, lips sliding against hers as she pushed her back against her seat. To Brittany, an arm branded with magic marker had always seemed like an invisible tattoo that reassured them both of some hazy future together, where they could be whatever they wanted to be.

Now, the future was here, spelled out for her in a green folder and an invisible tattoo that only they could see just didn't seem good enough.

Instinct alone caused her hand to palm underneath the red polyester of Brittany's uniform top; smooth against lean muscles that flexed against her touch. Even when Brittany moaned, ground down with her hips and slid a hand between them to settle against Santana's breast, Santana found her emotion beating back her lust.

If Brittany was at all surprised by Santana's reluctance to take it any further, she didn't show it. Instead Brittany's kisses slowed, grew languid, and her hand withdrew from her breast to settle against Santana's cheek.

Santana's eyes opened. Brittany was now entirely in her embrace, curves settled heavily against her own. Her eyes were kind and sweet, as her thumb traversed Santana's swollen lips.

"You can say no," Brittany said suddenly, tone soft and affectionate. "You know that, right?"

She looked absolutely breathtaking, and Santana felt suddenly like a lovesick fool.

"You know when you were twelve," she found herself saying, "And you told Mark Peters that you liked him and wanted him to be your boyfriend?"

Blue eyes darkened in confusion, but Brittany nodded regardless. "Yeah."

Santana bit her lip, and finally just shrugged. "I was pissed. I wanted to be your boyfriend."

And there was the truth of it. It was as honest as she had ever been with Brittany. No bullshit vague 'we'll be together forever', no 'dating just means gifts and making them pay for dinner'. Just Santana and her foolish dreaming, hidden deep within her and never, ever vocalized to anyone.

Brittany took it in, tried to understand it. Her mouth creased into a sudden grin. "You're not a boy, silly."

"I know," Santana found herself snapping, embarrassed despite herself, suddenly irritated beyond belief. With Brittany on top of her, holding her face in her fingers, it was impossible to look away, and that it made her vulnerable in a way that was simultaneously terrifying and mortifying. "You know what I mean."

But Brittany, who Santana had NEVER thought to be an idiot, no matter how dim she could seem, just smiled, like she hadn't heard anything at all. "I bet you'd be hot in a uniform."

God, Brittany and her damn ADHD bullshit. Santana squirmed uncomfortably, cheeks flushed with emotion and anger. "God-dammit, Brit-"

Stronger than her, Brittany stayed put, holding her in place when Santana tried to struggle. "Santana, you're stupid."

"What?"

"You know I'm gonna marry you someday, right?"

Santana's body tensed immediately.

But Brittany only shrugged, as if this little bombshell was common knowledge. "I forgot to tell you, didn't I? That we're going to get married?"

"Yeah Brit," she snorted helplessly, "You forgot to tell me."

"Sorry." Brittany pressed a kiss against her lips, lingering and sweet, and then settled against her shoulder. She was heavy and awkward, and her arm dug into Santana's ribcage uncomfortably, making it hard to breathe. "I thought you knew. Like in _The Princess Bride_. You know, the movie? When Buttercup keeps telling Westley to do things, he always responds with 'As You Wish'. And what he meant was-"

"I love you." For Santana, this revelation, on a day that seemed ripe for completely insane expectations for her future that she suddenly had no say in, struck her mute.

"I should have asked you, right?"

Santana laughed helplessly. "Maybe?" she wheezed.

"Sorry," she heard, before Brittany continued with, "Santana."

"What?"

"I'll totally be your hot army wife, if you want me to be."

Feeling like she was drunk, Santana wildly wondered if she should have been offended that Brittany, who was apparently so assured of Santana that she took it for granted that they would get fucking married when they had never even technically dated, seemed so unafraid of any refusal.

Did Brittany really know her that well?

"So while I'm off saving the world," she found herself musing, "You'll be my trophy piece of tail?"

Brittany's head lifted, and then resettled against the lettered stitching of her uniform to regard her. "Do I still get to dance?"

"You get whatever you want," Santana breathed, because it was true.

Brittany's returning grin was brilliantly sincere. "I already have what I want," she said, and tapped her fingers against Santana's shoulder pointedly. The flash of blinding happiness that surged in Santana nearly choked her. "What do YOU want?" Brittany asked, soft and casual. "Besides being my boyfriend."

Having a best friend like Brittany meant living a life that was almost always just a little bit surreal, and Santana had always been okay with that. While she saw the world with all its flaws and imperfections, ripe for critique and mockery, Brittany's world was colored with bright lights and a future that seemed full of promise and security, no matter what the circumstances.

It was why they were tangled together in the backseat of her car, with Santana's head leaning against a fogged up window and Brittany's flexible body folded on top of her, speaking about getting married and being boyfriends and joining the army like they'd be talking about manicures, or Brittany's cat.

In Brittany's reality, they were getting married, and Santana was a hero, singled out and valued because she was as special as Brittany thought she was.

Fingers drifted against blonde strands, scratching nails lightly against Brittany's nape, as it occurred to Santana that Brittany had accomplished her goal: Santana no longer felt the fear.

What she felt instead was remarkably warmer, and she understood that this feeling was precious and fragile.

"Remember what we learned about in social studies? In Iran? They're like, putting people to death for doing what we do."

Brittany sighed, breath lilting across her throat. "Yeah," she mumbled against the fabric of Santana's shirt, sounding sobered and sad.

Santana didn't identify with queer, but Brittany did. Brittany, with her obsession with breasts and her hobby of making out with everyone, did it without thinking of any sort of consequences.

Even in crusty old Lima, she was safe.

Because it was freaking America, or whatever, and there were people who fought for that right, to keep her safe.

Thoughts that seemed jumbled and incomprehensible two minutes ago suddenly seemed so very clear.

Brittany, the girl she was gonna marry, had always been her safe place.

Maybe it was time to return the favor.

"It is kind of awesome, isn't it?" she asked, tone growing bolder. "In a twisted sort of way. That Sue chose me."

"Totally. But like she would really pick anyone else."

"I could like, make a difference." Her palms smoothed down Brittany's arms, tugging slightly until Brittany took the hint and resettled herself, nose buried into Santana's neck. The position allowed her to embrace Brittany, and she did, tightening her hold until she felt every inch of her. It made her feel absurdly sentimental. "So Master Planner, when are we getting married?

"I dunno." Brittany bit lightly against her jaw, a gesture of affection. She sounded relaxed and sleepy. "Eventually. You can go be an army hero first, if you want."

A lump of emotion suddenly pressed in against the back of her throat. "Thanks," she managed, and as lightly as she could, continued, "I think I will."

Just like that, Santana's future had clicked into place. The life of a soldier; a bad ass soldier with a trophy wife, her own inspiration for saving the American Free World.

Brittany absorbed it. "Awesome."

Santana's fear seemed trivial now, because there was Brittany's assurance that she would be there, every step of the way. For the rest of her life.

God-damn.

Heart seized with emotion, Santana found herself overtaken with giddy triumph and the urge to celebrate the decision the best way she knew how. "Wanna do it?"

Brittany's head lifted to study her, and when Santana smiled lewdly, laughed in delight. "Hell, yeah," she breathed and launched herself forward, bruising Santana's lips with a kiss that cemented a future together that seemed suddenly unshakable and within her grasp.

**END PROLOGUE**


	2. Chapter 1

**TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress  
>AUTHOR: Misty Flores<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>PART ONE <strong>

_I should have stayed  
>But I lost my head<br>I should have stayed  
>But I lost myself<em>  
>- 'Always Running Out of Time',<br>Motion City Soundtrack

When Quinn Fabray chose the general elective 'Studies of the Mind' her first semester at Ohio State University, it had simply been the result of a thoughtless click of the mouse on a particularly harried day. In the midst of filling out an application for the dorm residence, choosing her major, and filling in financial aid bubbles, that class had been nothing more than an afterthought.

Since then, in pockets of quiet moments that grew increasingly rare as the years had passed, Quinn found herself wondering fleetingly how different her life might have been if she had haphazardly checked off 'Literature, Science Fiction, and the Arts' with creepy looking Professor Snyder, instead.

There would have been no Professor Andrews. There would have been no secret test. No summons to her office under the pretext of discussing her grade. There would have been no recruitment to Fulcrum.

In short, Quinn Fabray may have gone on to live her life as a completely ordinary law-abiding citizen, with a few skeletons in her closet.

That life, she had decided long ago, would have been worse than the very real possibility she now faced of dying before she ever reached thirty. Or being arrested for treason and spending the rest of her life rotting in an American prison, for actions that had been taken under the assumption that she was being a patriot.

It was almost enough to be bitter, and under normal circumstances, Quinn would be bitter as hell to discover the lies she had been fed, made to believe in so soundly.

These weren't normal circumstances. Being placed in a position to steal the nation's most critical military secret and weapon would never be a normal circumstance.

Sitting on a stone bench outside of a building she had memorized blueprints of, Quinn passed the time drinking a coffee. At exactly 3:00PM, an unlisted number buzzed through to her cell phone.

A shot of adrenaline sparked into her. Feeling light headed, she carefully and casually answered the call, fully expecting to hear an unidentified male voice with instructions, as had happened countless times before.

What she heard instead was a voice so shrill it made her wince. "Quinn? Quinn Fabray?"

"Who is this?"

"Quinn, it's Rachel. Rachel Berry. From Glee Club in high school?"

It was a voice she hadn't heard in eight years. Hearing it now brought with it such a shock, she was reduced to babbling like an idiot, "Rachel?"

By the time her mind had caught up, snapped into place that that this was NOT who she was waiting for and she needed to hang up NOW, Rachel Berry, the bane of her high-school existence, had already launched into some sort of tirade-slash-pitch.

"-realize that this is completely unexpected, but I was wondering if you would be free in a few weeks? Brittany's birthday is coming up, and I think it would be absolutely amazing to get all the original members of the Glee Club together to do a homage to-"

She lifted her wrist, and noted with a desperate internal wince that it was 3:01PM. Without another word, she disconnected the call.

Glee Club. Rachel Berry. Brittany. Names and memories she hadn't conjured up in years, and now, they washed over her in a succession of images, barraging her and dizzying her in the process.

A choir room. A red and white cheerleading suit. A baby turning inside her, heavy and cherished. The sound of music filling her ears and spilling from her mouth, eclipsing her with vibrant joy.

When her phone rang again, she found herself coming out of a sort of a fog, shaking her head desperately to free the sudden cobweb of memories. "Hello."

"-we must have been disconnected. So Brittany-"

It was astounding how just the sound of that particular voice brought with it an emotional Pavlovian knee-jerk response that dimly resembled her reaction to the sound of nails on a chalkboard. "Rachel..." she began, teeth grinding in frustration.

"-always gets so down this time of year, missing Santana-"

The seconds clicked by on her watch, and there was no time. She disconnected again.

Once again, almost immediately, the phone rang, caller ID blocked.

Quinn's skin prickled in nervous bewilderment. It could be Rachel Berry, exhibiting every bit of that annoying personality that had made her so damn tiresome when Quinn was a teenager.

Or it could be her superior, calling in her orders, and sending her on one of the most important missions of her life.

With no choice, but also a bit of dread, she picked up the cellphone, and pressed the button to receive the call. "Fabray."

"You have such a horrible connection. Do you have AT&T?"

Her eyes scrunched closed, head falling in defeat. "Rachel, how did you even get this number?"

"It wasn't easy to get!"

"I don't have time for this right now."

"It's just that since Santana's been gone-"

She was about to attempt to steal the military's greatest asset, and Rachel Berry was babbling into her ear about Brittany and Santana's relationship issues.

The worst part of it was, she found herself actually wondering about it, mind blazing with sudden questions: What the hell was Brittany doing with Rachel? Where did Santana go? And God, why did she even friggin' care?

This did not belong in her head. Not now.

What. The _Fuck. _

The phone buzzed, signaling another caller. The display revealed another blocked number, and a prompt to either end the call, or place the current caller on hold and switch lines.

"It would be so uplifting-"

Eyes lifting up to the building in front of her, Quinn switched the line. "Fabray."

"You're a go," said the male voice, and Quinn's breath hitched. "Enter the building, check in with security and be in the lobby by 3:08PM. There will be a distraction. You'll have exactly two minutes."

The line disconnected. Rachel's blocked number still blinked on the screen, alerting her that the call was being held.

Taking a moment to quiet her nerves and steady her suddenly shaky limbs, Quinn slowly rose to her feet. When she began to walk towards the building, careful to keep an easy, casual gait, she took notice of the entrance. Stationed at the front, men in black stood about casually, eyes sharp behind their tinted sunglasses. They were elite, trained to spot anything out of the ordinary; anything suspicious. If they stopped her for even a moment, it would throw off everything. Should the distraction come before she was actually through security and in the lobby, there would be no other chance.

There was a knack to this kind of work; to doing it well. Much of it came with the ability to improvise. She brought the phone to her ear.

"Hello? Hello! Quinn?"

"Rachel," she breathed, and forced the smile in her voice, tone smooth as honey. "Sorry about that. It's so good to hear from you!"

"Quinn!"

"I had no idea that Brittany and Santana had broken up-"

From Rachel came a pregnant pause. "Quinn," she began, voice sounding suddenly strange. "Brittany and Santana didn't break up."

"Well, whatever happened-"

"Santana's dead, Quinn."

Her feet suddenly turned to lead; her ankle twisted, causing her to pitch forward, sprawling towards the pavement. Quick hands reached out, grabbed hold of her, keeping her upright.

_Santana's dead, Quinn. _

"Miss? Are you all right?"

Speechless, Quinn glanced up to the man who had saved from her tumble. She was in the strong embrace of a man in black, who studied her behind his dark glasses, noted the stricken expression, the lost eyes.

"I'm fine," she whispered, and pushed herself up, wincing as her tone grew unsteady. "I just... I just got some bad news."

Quinn prided herself on keeping her head during a mission. No matter what the circumstances, she never, ever lost her composure. It meant the difference between a failed mission and a successful one, and in her line of work, a failed mission meant death.

She hadn't thought of Santana Lopez in years. When she had, it was always with a bittersweet pang, because the girl who had been her best friend in middle school had turned into her greatest nemesis in high school, who tore the captaincy of the Cheerios from her with a viciousness that Quinn had almost admired.

"Excuse me," she whispered, and shouldered her way past the man. Her phone rose shakily back to her ear. "Rachel."

"I'm so sorry. I thought you knew. It happened a few years ago. She was killed in action when she was stationed overseas."

"Oh," she managed, voice gone ragged.

"She died around Brittany's birthday. Brittany always gets so depressed, I thought maybe-"

Fuck. Shutting her eyes, Quinn shook her head and fisted her palm around the phone, gritting her teeth as she forced her feet to drag forward.

"Okay, Rachel," she snapped, cutting the other woman off. "I'll go."

"You will? Quinn, that would mean so much!"

"Just text me your information, okay?" Her heels were scuffed, her eyes were burning, but she was in the lobby.

"That'll be great! I'll send you my email address and you can get all the details! You have no idea how much this will mean to Brittany! Ever since Santana-"

The irritation hit her harder than the shock or her unexpected grief. "That's great, Rachel. I have to go."

She straightened her posture and disconnected the call, forcing a smile onto her face that had never been so difficult to muster. "Hi there!"

It was a deliberate expression that Quinn was used to painting onto her pretty face; naïve, with just a little bit of the nerves to charm a security guard and nurture his John Wayne-ish protective instincts. She meant to have him think her sweet; just an idealistic nervous intern checking in for her first day on the job inone of the most highly secured buildings in the nation.

He was meant to look at her, appreciate her, and then forget her just as quickly.

"Fifth floor," he told her, a small smile playing on his lips as he handed back her ID. "Through the security scanner, and then check in with the front desk to fill out your documents."

"Thank you so much." Quinn's breathless enthusiasm got an 'Aw Shucks, Ma'am' kind of expression from the tubby man.

She walked away from him, and headed for the security gate, and wiped furiously at a tear that was threatening to slip onto her cheek.

It was 3:05PM.

Pecking the digits dutifully into her cell phone, Rachel Berry hit 'send', and watched as her text to Quinn Fabray faded from her screen in favor of Quinn's contact information.

She took a moment for herself, turning the conversation and the awkward direction it went over in her mind, and then, with a sigh, she lifted the black pen and carefully scratched a check mark next to Quinn's name on her list.

Any feeling of validation she might have had at a) actually reaching Quinn, and b) getting her to agree to join them, had been tamped down significantly at the fact that she had had to be the one to deliver the news about Santana.

"Who were you talking to?"

Brittany's voice was soft, but the sheer unexpectedness of it caused Rachel's heart to skid into her throat, nearly choking her in the process.

Scrambling in sudden panic, she shoved her paper underneath her laptop. "You scared me," she told her roommate, trying desperately to sound casual and not desperate and dramatic.

Brittany, leaning into the doorway of her bedroom, only shrugged. "I wasn't trying to."

And that was true enough. Living with Brittany the last couple of years had taught Rachel that the woman was as graceful as a cat, and as quietly intrusive. More than once, Rachel had been happily lost in her own world, only to turn and trip over a suddenly appearing Brittany.

Rachel pushed up, and, remembering the notes she had received from her drama coach, attempted a relaxed slouch. "You're home early."

"It was a slow day." Still clad in her work uniform, Brittany's palms pushed into the back of her black pants. Her 'Nerd Herd' ID badge was clipped haphazardly onto her wrinkled white shirt, and the black necktie that hung loosely around her neck had been clearly tugged and wrestled with.

It didn't speak much of Buy More's reputation, Rachel thought, that Brittany had been hired as a computer tech when in high school, she literally tried to feed her computer 'mouse' to her cat.

"Oh," she said, and then smiled brightly, walking towards Brittany. "I'm actually on my way out. I have a rehearsal—"

Brittany didn't smile back. "I know what you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Rachel..." Bright blue eyes that used to shine only looked at her frankly. With a stretch of her long, lean body, Brittany reached around her and took hold of Rachel's list of names. She studied them, silently noted the checks and the x's marked besides them. "I don't want this." Brittany said suddenly. "It's sweet that you're trying, but I don't want this."

Rachel could have continued the play at ignorance. It was a trick she had long ago learned from Brittany herself, who often liked to frustrate her for her own amusement by talking nonsense in circles that she only half believed.

But this was different. There was no humor in this, and Brittany, as dim as she could be, had proven to be quite sharp about the little things. Rachel had expected she would put the pieces together, and she decided that it was time.

This was for Brittany, after all. An attempt to bring her closer to the thing that made her happy, as happy as Santana had made her. To heal the wounds with the salve of old friends and memories.

With a hard swallow, Rachel delicately extracted her list from Brittany's fingers. "How do you know," she began, as gently as she could. "What you want?"

The expression on her best friend's face hardened considerably. "I know."

Ignoring the cold tone, Rachel managed an easy smile. "You don't always. You didn't think that we'd be good roommates, and look at us now!" She spread her arms wide and motioned about the room. "A beautiful townhouse in West Los Angeles, where we can pursue our dreams!"

"You work on a soap that's about to get cancelled and I barely make more than minimum wage at a Buy More."

The devil was in the details, and Rachel shrugged off her friend's pessimistic frustration. "A marvelous starting off point," she pointed out. "Many actors have launched hugely successful careers after a tenure on a soap. And with the way the economy is, it's good to have a job at all."

"Rachel-"

"I think it might be good for you," she blurted, before Brittany could once again refute her request. "To be around people who knew her." Her. She didn't even say Santana's name, and already she could see Brittany's eyes flutter, her mouth crimp. "Who loved her like you did."

"No one loved her like I did." The heated, dark way that Brittany expressed that struck a pang deep in Rachel's heart that made her eyes water and her mouth tremble.

Rachel was an actress, a bona fide actress who prided herself on her empathy, her ability to dig deep into her character and truly feel what her character was experiencing. And although her character Cybil had been buried alive, survived an evil twin, a brain transplant, and a brief but enlightening lesbian romance, Rachel still could not, would not imagine what it would feel like to be in Brittany's situation: twenty-six and practically a widow.

"Fair enough," she whispered. Her list crinkled in her hand. Helplessly, she tried again. "I just think it might be nice to celebrate-"

"I don't want to celebrate."

"-to celebrate Santana's memory with something that we both know she loved," Rachel deliberately finished. "She loved to sing, Brittany," she reminded her, even though she knew Brittany didn't need to be reminded. Carefully, hesitantly, Rachel tried to push. "Just like you love to dance."

"I don't love to dance."

And that was a lie. And not a very good one.

Rachel thought that, considering the circumstances, Brittany had actually managed quite well with the tragedy that had befallen her. There was no comfort in the fact that Santana had died a war hero; Brittany blamed herself for Santana's enlistment. She told Rachel that she had been the one to convince Santana to join the army, and therefore her death was her fault. No amount of reasoning would convince Brittany otherwise.

Even in that grief, that guilt, that sorrow, Brittany was still Brittany.

But she was a Brittany without a Santana, and Rachel didn't even know how someone could seem incomplete without someone else until Santana had been cleanly clipped away from her lifelong best friend and sweetheart.

And this Brittany? This Brittany didn't dance.

The parts were all still there: her toned, lean body, her graceful, poetic movements, her love of music.

But the will had faded, as if Brittany had decided that to allow herself this one joy, the joy of the one thing she did brilliantly, would be a betrayal to Santana.

Instead of dancing, Brittany worked at a Buy More. Any ambition beyond that had died with Santana.

"Well, she loved to sing," Rachel said, breaking into the quiet awkwardness. "And she was good at it." Brittany bit her lower lip, but did not answer. "Never as good as me of course," Rachel couldn't help but admit. "But we can't all have perfect pitch."

Brittany's eyes rolled, but there must have been something in what she said, because the stiff posture relaxed, and though Brittany was close to chewing her bottom lip raw, she seemed to almost hear her.

Rachel allowed herself to hope. "Just think about it, okay?"

Blue eyes locked with hers intensely. After a long moment, she was rewarded with a slight nod.

The joy at seeing just the tiny hint of approval was hard to contain. The words and enthusiasm threatened to explode out of her, and suddenly afraid of pushing too far, Rachel kept her mouth shut long enough to press a kiss against Brittany's soft cheek.

"I have to go."

Ducking her head, she maneuvered around her and headed for the kitchen.

She really did have a rehearsal to get to.

* * *

><p>Logically, Quinn understood that she had been pretzeled into the corner of a vent for only an hour.<p>

She had to remind herself of that as time ticked by slowly, locking her in the same curled position for what felt like an eternity. Her muscles had long since stiffened. The heat had caused her to sweat, and that perspiration had soaked into her clothes, making the pantsuit she wore itch and plaster to her skin uncomfortably.

These were simple physical tests. Quinn had endured things like this before, including torture at the hands of her very own trainers, who promised that they were simply breaking her in order to show her how to withstand much worse at the hands of her enemies.

Strength was not ruled by the physical, but by the mental.

That wouldn't have been a problem, if Quinn's brain hadn't taken this opportunity to spontaneously combust, mind swirling with memories and song and every single emotion that had coursed through her during her high school years.

Quinn had been raised ruthless, but it had been a different kind of ruthless. She had been naïve and over dependent on her parents. She had believed that God had blessed her, given her some sort of charmed life .

Glee Club and an unexpected teen pregnancy had shattered all that. Her family, who she had believed to be so faithful, had kicked her out of her house, and instead, her family became a group of misfit Mouseketeers, who held her hand and accepted her without expectation or reservation.

It seemed kind of impossible that Quinn had forgotten what that all felt like. When she had left for school, she remembered only the shame, the disappointment, and despite an occasional call with Mercedes, had promised herself she would never look back. It was what made the decision to join Fulcrum easy, almost desirable. They saw her as she wanted to be: ruthless, confident, and without any regrets.

Rachel Berry, one phone call, and the ill-timed news of the death of Santana Lopez had brought that scared, shaken girl back and there was simply no place for her anymore.

Not now, not ever.

Rachel Berry's email address blinked at her from her phone, taunting her, daring her to lose her focus, her confidence.

God-damn Rachel Berry if it was going to be that easy.

Sucking in a harsh breath, Quinn glanced again at her watch, and waited for the seconds to tick down.

Major Mathews, her intended target, was late. Locked into the vent, Quinn had no choice but to wait for her.

Finally, she heard footsteps, loud and clear, heels that indicated that the blonde haired, slender government worker was making her way to her daily meeting, in the process passing a critical door that only her badge could access.

The click-clack of her heels, the way she nearly sprinted down the hall indicated she was late, and that she was alone.

Quinn's body tensed and she waited.

Five. Four. Three. Two... One.

The vent jerked open, as Quinn executed a powerful kick, enough to slam the other woman hard into the other wall.

Hands splayed out with the force, her head cracked hard against the wall. Quinn wasted no time in rolling out of the vent and bringing her fist down hard on the downed woman's temple.

She hadn't even had time to scream.

Quinn didn't waste a moment. Wrapping fingers around the cuff of the other woman's collar, she dragged her quickly into one of the many rooms littering the pristine hallway.

Her name didn't matter. Who she was mattered even less. Whether she lived or died was inconsequential.

The disabling of this woman was just another step in a plan that had taken months to put together, hundreds of hours of diligence, paid informants, and even then, much of it relied on luck.

There was no room for mistakes.

As Quinn shrugged off her blazer and pulled the ID badge off the blonde woman's lapel, she thought of her cell phone, and Rachel Berry's contact information, sitting smugly among her messages. Of the news of Santana, who she remembered as a bitch, a confidant, and a thorn in her side. Of Brittany, unexpectedly alone without her best friend and lover.

When she realized what it was she was doing, Quinn grimaced and shut the thoughts down, locking them deep into a part of her brain that she would not touch at the moment.

In eight years, this was what had become of her. Quinn was no longer pathetic. She was no longer obliged to take scraps of kindness in the face of unspeakable betrayal and unplanned pregnancies.

She no longer harbored any confusion about who she was and what she was capable of.

She was a killer. She was a traitor. She was a liar, and she was a thief, trained by the very best.

Pilfering the gun from the other woman, Quinn tucked it into her waist and checked her watch.

_Rachel Berry_, she thought to herself, reaching for the doorknob and heading into the hallway, _can suck it_.

* * *

><p>First Lieutenant Molly Chambers had always been punctual. The need to be on time had been drilled into her even before her time in the army, by a militant cheerleading coach who might as well have been running a special forces unit.<p>

Boot camp, she remembered thinking, was a cakewalk when compared to some of Sue Sylvester's more intensive sessions.

It was for that reason that she found herself more than a little annoyed when she was directed into Major Matthew's office and found it empty.

In between assignments, and already cranky, there was little that frightened Molly Chambers more than an empty room and time to think.

Muscles feeling suddenly stiff, Molly forced herself to sit, settling into the purposely uncomfortable chair that faced the Major's desk.

An old fashioned clock mounted on the Major's wall clicked with every second.

Careful to keep her spine straight, posture perfect, Molly stared hard at the Major's desk. She noted the scattered papers; the half eaten protein bar.

Fingernails tapped hard on the wood of the chair she was sitting in. Long tan legs crossed and re-crossed themselves, as Molly struggled not to grow restless. Not to regress.

Molly Chambers had been brought into the army as a perfect soldier. Trained to be elite from the very beginning, it was only in the last few years that her psychologists noted an increased anxiety, particularly when she was left to her own devices, without a goal or a command.

They thought perhaps it was claustrophobia, a result of a mission that had gone particularly bad. Molly had been confined into a dark, dank room for six months.

Molly let them think it, but privately, she thought them idiots.

She knew the reason for the anxiety. It was the same reason she had become an insomniac and relied on pills to make it through the worst of the lonely nights.

It was stupidly simple. When there was no assignment, nothing to distract her, to immerse herself in, Molly Chambers' carefully built mental walls would collapse, and she would lose herself.

Her eyes would close, her heart would clench, and in those moments of weakness, she would be overtaken with thoughts of Brittany S. Pierce.

Blonde hair, a blinding smile, the sweetness of a perfect kiss, and the stinging clarity of a carefree laugh, it all seeped into her, soaking her in Brittany's essence, filling her with a loss so deep she found even taking a breath painful.

The psychologists never once asked her how it felt to be expected to give up the love of her life for the sake of the country.

When Sue Sylvester had told Santana that she would give up her heart and soul and her entire self to serve, it hadn't been an exaggeration. She had just never imagined it would have ever been meant so damn literally.

Plucking her security badge off the lapel of her fitted suit, she studied the face that smiled stiffly back up at her, beneath the blue blocked letters that identified her as NSA. It was the face of Santana Lopez, but the name was Molly Chambers, a new identity granted to her the night 'Santana' died on an overseas assignment.

If she had been given a choice as to when it would happen, she wouldn't have chosen to die a month before she was supposed to marry Brittany. She wouldn't have chosen that her last phone call to Brittany be rushed, in which she could only wish her a happy birthday, and lie that she would be home in time for her own fucking wedding.

Even if she had been given a choice, Santana wondered if she would have ever had the heart to make that crushing decision.

Save the world, save Brittany.

Give the ultimate sacrifice in order to do it.

Lose yourself.

Lose your life. Lose your entire reason for doing it in the first place.

Abandon all your hopes and dreams. Don't ever go back to the little apartment with the girl who had become a woman beside you.

Promise to protect her, but do so by breaking every other promise you've ever made.

Don't marry her. Don't see her. Kill yourself and never wonder about her again, because she's dead to you and you made the choice, no matter what the consequences.

No matter that you can't breathe, can't live, can't be anything but a soldier without her.

No matter that you still count down the weeks until her birthday, and dream an impossible dream where you marry her like you promised you would.

No matter that sometimes at night, you still take a black pen and etch her name on your arm, branding her into your skin.

The wetness on her cheeks shocked her. Santana lifted her hand, pressed fingers to her skin and discovered the moisture.

Goddammit, this was why she HATED waiting.

Breath sucking in harshly, Santana rose unsteadily to her feet, charging for the door and wrenching it open.

"Lieutenant?" Already, Major Mathew's assistant, a nerdy looking Private who was recruited more for his ability to suck up than any actual talent, rose from his desk. "Can I help you?"

"I need a minute," was all she said, blinking the wetness from her eyes and focusing on which door would make for the quickest escape.

"I'm sorry, but you just can't leave." Private Morris rounded the desk. "Major Mathews—"  
>"-isn't here," Santana finished.<p>

"She'll be here soon," Private Morris insisted. "And she doesn't like to wait."

"Neither do I." Santana headed for the closest exit.

A surprisingly strong hand gripped onto her elbow, holding her tight.

"I'm sorry," he began.

To be polite was simply past Santana's capabilities at this particular moment. Without hesitation, she reached for his thumb with her free hand, and pried it off her skin, jerking the joint back hard enough for the Private to whine in a supremely satisfying way.

His expression morphed from firm arrogance to that of a struck puppy. Santana flashed him a perfect, frightening smile.

"Private," she began, as sweetly horrifying as she could. "Do you know who I am?"

"You're First Lieutenant Molly Chambers, a special agent in the NSA," he babbled immediately. "Who is currently on the short list of being considered by Major Mathews as the next host for our recently upgraded government Intersect. Who is also going to break my thumb if she doesn't let go."

"Breaking your thumb would mean you got off lucky," she pointed out. "You know that, don't you?"

His eyes floated briefly down to her waist, where a Beretta fit snugly in a holster against her ribs.

"Y-yes," he managed.

"Yes, Lieutenant," she corrected sharply.

"Yes, Lieutenant!" Gulping hard, he nodded enthusiastically. "Sorry. Lieutenant."

"I've given my life to this country. Literally. The least I expect in return is for our mad scientist Major to be on fucking time so I don't have to think about what that means. Unless you want me to choke you with your tie, and not care about any squeaky choking noises you might make, you're going to let me walk through that door and take a moment to walk off all this extra anxiety."

"But you can't be late!" he squeaked. "She's running a final test in her lab! It's almost ready and ..."

He shut his mouth and reddened, very aware that he had revealed far too much.

The information was quietly staggering.

Santana knew very little about the Intersect project. It was one of the government's most classified. The fact that she knew anything about it at all was only on account of being one of very few chosen elite agents that had been groomed for this very purpose.

What she did know was abstract at best. The Intersect was a unique type of supercomputer, enriched with all of the government's most hidden secrets and files, designed to be downloaded into a person's brain, making them a literal human super weapon.

The very idea felt like it had come out of some bad seventies Bond movie, and yet, here they were. Santana had sacrificed her life, her very identity, for it.

Suddenly dizzy, Santana released the Private's thumb.

Immediately, he hissed in grateful thanks, rubbing at the abused finger and glaring at her like a disgruntled cat.

"I'll be right back," Santana muttered. There was a small door to the right of the office, unmarked and hopefully, leading to some sort of unoccupied space where Santana could revert to form and lick her wounds in private.

"Please, Lieutenant, just wait here! It'll reflect badly on your candidacy! The Intersect can't be pouty!" he added, with a touch of exasperation. "Not that way!"

The little bastard actually followed her into the hallway.

"Please, Lieutenant," he pleaded. "This is a highly secured area. You can't be here. Major Matthew's left very specific instructions-"

The hallway exploded in a cacophony of sound, startling them both so much Private Morris nearly jumped into her arms. The high-pitched, ear splitting alarm echoed off the walls, setting her head ringing.

"What the hell?"

"It's the alarm!" Private Morris, apparently, had a gift for stating the obvious. "It's coming from the lab. The Intersect! Major Mathews was in there!"

The implications were damn serious.

"Crap," she breathed, and unclipped her holster. "Come on-"

Instead he shook his head, edging back to the office. "I should call security."

She glared at him in disbelief. "There's an alarm!" she pointed out, wincing at the noise. "That's already fucking called security!"

He opened his mouth, ready to argue, when his eyes widened and his face went white. "Lieutenant!"

The sound of a gunshot blasted above the sirens, just as plaster exploded inches from her arm, scratching debris into her skin. Whirling, Santana jerked up her gun.

The figure that shot at her seemed almost a blur. Blonde hair, a black suit and the smoking muzzle of a gun was all Santana could begin to see before another bullet blasted in her direction.

Diving into a roll that bruised her shoulder when she smacked against the hard tile of the floor, Santana felt the heat of the lead burn past her ear. She shot without looking, clipping off another two as she rolled to her feet and nearly twisted an ankle in the process.

"Oh God," she heard. Private Morris was down, clutching at his leg, blood seeping from a wound he had sustained on his thigh.

Already the woman was skidding around a corner, leaving her behind.

"God-dammit," Santana muttered, and without another look at the injured, but alive Morris, sprinted after the intruder.

* * *

><p>Stealing the Intersect would not come without its expected hiccups. Quinn had known that.<p>

She hadn't counted on her mind being a fragmented mess. She hadn't counted on just one second of unsteadiness that tripped the wrong motion sensor, sending an alarm blaring through the building.

She hadn't counted on an agent standing in a secure access hallway that she had been told was usually _empty _at this exact time.

She hadn't counted on suddenly seeing ghosts.

Running for her life would have been so much easier if it could have been done in Cheerio-issued white sneakers.

Quinn jerked into a dark corner behind a stack of crates, fighting hard to keep her breath even, even as a blond bang stuck to her sweat-soaked forehead.

God, her heart wouldn't stop beating.

This was supposed to be her escape route. This large supply room held a chute that would lead her straight out of the building via the old and crumbling tunnels that ran underneath Washington D.C.

It should have been easy.

A flash of light illuminated into the darkness just as a bullet bit a chunk out of the wooden crate beside her, digging a splinter into her cheek. Quinn ducked her head and dove into a rolling sprint, skidding quickly through the grime to find safety behind another stack of boxes.

_God-dammit. _

There was a quiet crunch. It was pitch black; the other woman was momentarily unsure of her position. She was waiting, quietly and carefully searching around the edge of every box, gun ready and waiting to put a bullet into Quinn the minute she found her.

And she was smart. She didn't waste all her ammunition with potshots the minute she heard her. No, she took her damn time. Placed them precisely and dangerously close, no matter what Quinn shot back at her.

She knew time was on her side. If they kept playing this cat and mouse game, eventually the other agents would catch up to them both, and then Quinn would be surrounded.

There would be no way out.

_Fuck_, Quinn thought, head falling back against the rough wood. _Fuck, fuck, FUCK. _

Taking in a steadying breath, Quinn counted back each and every shot she had fired. Each and every time she had failed to down her target was a wasted chance to make her escape. And there were only two bullets left.

If she was caught, Fulcrum would lose the Intersect, and it would be the end of her. She would be disowned by Fulcrum. Burned. She would be tried as a traitor to the United States Government and be executed - or worse, left to rot in a cell.

There would be no hope. She knew that.

If she was getting out of this, she needed leverage. She needed more than just an escape route and an Intersect in her pocket.

Quinn was in danger of losing her greatest asset, and it was all Rachel Berry's fault. It was ridiculous and revolting and _real_, because somehow, that call had gotten into her head and screwed her, hard.

Because Quinn Fabray could almost swear that the woman who was currently chasing her down was none other than the supposed-to-be-very-dead Santana Lopez.

Seriously, _fuck _Rachel Berry.

Wiping sweaty palms against her skirt, Quinn fumbled for her phone, and hid the LED light underneath her blazer. Her fingers thumbed through the messages until she found what she was looking for.

She pressed send.

She waited, agonizing seconds, for the bar to slowly reach the right of the screen. A heel scuffed in the dust, closer than Quinn was comfortable with.

Immediately after, the phone flared in her hand, self-destructing. A shot rang out; scathing heat flaring past her neck as she ducked her head and winced.

The woman spoke, calling out to her in the darkness. "This is First Lieutenant Molly Chambers. I'm an NSA Officer."

Quinn immediately lost all train of thought. The voice went through her, settled into her with a familiarity that was unmistakably Santana Lopez.

"Other agents will be here soon. There's no way out," the Santana-voice on the Santana-look-alike said. "So don't be an idiot. Give yourself up, give me back what you stole and maybe I won't shoot your bitch ass."

_Calm down_, Quinn thought miserably. _Stop freaking out and think this through. If it looks like a Santana and it sounds like a Santana, then, as crazy as it would be, it's a Santana. _

Her eyes squeezed tight. _But Rachel said Santana was dead. She's been dead for years. Britt's a mess because of it. Santana died on assignment overseas. _

_Santana died on an assignment overseas. _

Quinn's eyes flew open.

_Or maybe she didn't. Maybe, that's just what everyone believed. What everyone had been told. _

The explanation came together quickly, so simple and unbelievable it was almost laughable. Quinn's shoulders shook in half-crazed mirth.

God, this was just so fitting. And it was a gift. This was a beautiful, beautiful gift.

"Are you listening to me?" she heard, Santana's voice rising in anger, losing her patience.

Quinn glanced at her exit point, and braced herself. Her smile grew wide. "Really, Santana?" she called out. "When the hell have I ever listened to you?"

She was answered with silence. It was confirmation enough.

"You look pretty good for a corpse," she added, unable to help herself. "Makes sense. I always thought you were a little dead inside."

"Quinn." Santana's voice was stained with shocked realization.

It was the chance she needed.

Pushing hard against the wood, Quinn expelled her last bullet and ran like hell.

* * *

><p>Rachel's spreadsheet had a title that read 'Original New Directions Reunion'. It had eleven names, all familiar to Brittany. Beside each was an address, a telephone number, and a column that, Rachel's legend said, could either be a yes, no or a maybe.<p>

So far, Rachel's spreadsheet contained not one 'no'.

Brittany's lips pursed. Her eyes read the list of names, over and over, until the letters ceased being letters and morphed into black meaningless squiggles.

The sheet seemed like a lie, because even though Rachel had included herself and even Brittany, Rachel hadn't bothered to include all twelve members.

Santana's name was nowhere on the list.

It made Brittany want to take Rachel's stupid spreadsheet and crumple it into a ball, send it through a shredder.

Her inner Santana, the one that felt almost like an imaginary friend, the one that never left her even when the real Santana did, told her not to be stupid.

Santana was dead. She wasn't coming back, not even to do Rachel's stupid reunion concert.

There was no logical reason Santana should have been included on Rachel's stupid spreadsheet, and even if she was, she would have been Rachel's only 'no'.

So she didn't crumple it. Instead, Brittany put the sheet back where she had found it, slipped underneath Rachel's keyboard.

The motion caused Rachel's mouse to move, and that brought Rachel's monitor to life, computer suddenly buzzing and whirring, excited to be noticed.

There were still a great many things about this world that Brittany did not understand. The one thing she thought she knew absolutely, she hadn't really known at all, and in the wake of that, Brittany found she trusted none of her instincts.

But she had learned to trust computers. Brittany had discovered almost by accident that computers didn't lie. They didn't know how to. If she wanted to, if she worked hard enough, she could make a computer do anything she wanted to.

There were no surprises.

What was a surprise, though, was the unread email sitting in Rachel's inbox, waiting to be opened.

It was from Quinn, with a subject line that said, "Surprise."

What Brittany did NOT trust was a surprise. She had received the worst surprise anyone could ever receive, and since there was only one surprise Brittany knew of that Rachel was planning, she didn't think it would be a terrible invasion if she read Quinn's email.

Brittany wasn't trying to be a bitch or a snoop. She just wanted to be prepared.

Hovering over it with the mouse, she double-clicked.

'Intersect Downloading', it said, and then faded away to a stack of images. They came at her slowly, then faster, and then suddenly the images blurred into text. It seemed to jump off the screen, like some sort of giant mosaic, and Brittany watched, fascinated, and suddenly kind of dizzy.

The dizziness became something else. It felt like a fizzle in her brain, some itch she couldn't scratch, and then Brittany couldn't think at all.

She passed out instead.


	3. Chapter 2

**TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress  
>AUTHOR: Misty Flores<strong>

**PART TWO**

_It's a thief in the night  
>To come and grab you<br>It can creep up inside you  
>And consume you<br>A disease of the mind  
>It can control you<br>It's too close for comfort  
>Throw on your brake lights<br>We're in the city of wonder_  
>-'Disturbia', Rihanna<p>

* * *

><p>Major Mathews had been ambushed, knocked out and locked in a utility closet on her way to her briefing with Lieutenant Chambers.<p>

Her badge had been stolen and used to gain access to the lab that held the working model of the Intersect, designed to be downloaded and in executable form, ready for upload into whoever the agency had decided was the worthy candidate.

Quinn Fabray, a known associate of Fulcrum, had taken the program. Had she not tripped the wire, had First Lieutenant Molly Chambers and Private Morris not been in the usually empty hallway at that exact time, she would have slipped in and out of the highly secure government agency almost completely undetected.

But the damage had been done, and the only evidence of it was in the burnt and mangled phone that Santana had recovered after an exhausting fruitless chase in sludge infested tunnels underneath the building.

It was proof that Quinn had sent the executable file before she had stepped out of the building, using the security's own wi-fi to do it.

And to Santana, that wasn't the worst of it.

"This is more than just an extreme threat to national security," Major Matthews said, leaning over Private Morris, as he typed furiously into the computer. "It's a god-damn embarrassment. How the hell did one agent sneak into this building and manage to fucking blindside me in my own hallway?"

"We're sorting it out," Private Morris stammered quickly, wincing as he braced his injured and bandaged leg against the desk and kept on typing. "She managed to sneak past security on the Main Level and then disabled the sentries-"

"I don't fucking care, Private," Matthews interrupted, shooting Santana an exasperated glance. "All I care about right now is finding out where the hell the Intersect went."

"Sorry," he said immediately, ducking his head. "Um... here! It was sent to an email address: . Routed to Los Angeles."

_Oh, God-dammit. _A jolt of sudden panic struck deep inside her. It was audible enough for both the Major and her trembling assistant to swivel their attention in her direction.

"You have to let me go," she said immediately. "You have to let me be the one to get it back."

"I don't have to let you do anything," Mathews sniped, clearly without patience.

"Major-"

"Is there something you'd like to share, Lieutenant?"

God, of all the fucking coincidences in the fucking planet, she and _Quinn_had ended up in some sort of Western Standoff, and she was the god-damn good guy.

Quinn, who recognized her, who knew that Santana still existed and hadn't died, who had every motivation in the world to completely fuck her over.

Who hadn't wasted any time doing exactly that.

Santana squared her shoulders, bit her lip. "I know that email address," she finally admitted. "It belongs to a girl named Rachel Berry who I went to high school with. Who _we _went to high school with."

"Rachel Berry?" Private Morris' eyes widened. "I know her! She's on 'Guiding Hope'!"

The Major focused on a different part of Santana's statement. "We?"

_Fucking God-Dammit. _

"Me and Quinn Fabray. Back before. .. Before I entered the program."

Private Morris let out a high pitched squeal when Major Matthews suddenly dug sharp nails into his shoulder, the implications settling in. "Do you mean to tell me that you personally know this Quinn Fabray?"

"Knew," Santana corrected softly. "And yes."

"Did she recognize you?"

"I'm afraid she did."

"Well this just gets better and better," Mathews breathed. "And this Rachel Berry?"

"She's just an actress," Santana said, shrugging. "She has no ties to Fulcrum."

"That you know of."

"That I know of," she agreed haltingly.

"Well, isn't this nice," Mathews sneered. "A fucking high school reunion. So the woman who broke in here and took our most highly prized asset not only knows exactly who you are, but has sent an executable file to some nobody in Los Angeles."

"A soap actress," Private Morris interrupted. "She's actually really good-"

"Shut up, Morris." Mathew's eyes never left hers.

He blanched, flushing. "Yes, Major."

"And despite the fact that this will utterly decimate your cover, you'd like to be the one to extract the Intersect."

"My cover is already compromised," Santana pointed out. "If Quinn sent the file to Rachel, then she's going to get it personally, which means Rachel is in danger. Not that I really care because Rachel has always been annoying as hell, but I know Quinn. I've beat her before, and I can beat her again."

"You couldn't even keep up with her in a sewer," Matthews snapped.

Santana flushed, and kept her mouth shut for a full three seconds to avoid retorting something equally scathing.

She couldn't take no for an answer. Not now.

"If we go to Los Angeles with a full ops team Fulcrum will get tipped off," she began, quiet and in control. "Quinn outed herself to me on purpose. She wants me to follow her. She wants to prove she can beat me."

The Major studied her intensely. "Why?"

"Because I beat her for cheerleading captain senior year," she answered, matter-of-fact.

Both the Private and the Major simply stared.

"And I took all her solos in Glee Club," Santana added.

"Well," the Major drawled sarcastically. "In _that _case, of COURSE!"

"Major-"

But the Major only waved her hand. "Go," she said, cutting her off. "You have a day. Exactly one day, to recover the Intersect before Fabray does. If you fail to both secure the Intersect, capture Fabray and maintain your cover, you will be extracted and removed from the candidacy. I'll have you transferred to some base in Arizona where you'll be waving the crazies out of Area 51. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Major."

"Good."

Heels swiveling against the floor, Santana headed for the door, digging out her phone to connect with her secretary.

Fucking Quinn Fabray, who thought she was better than everyone else, who had always been the world's biggest hypocrite, who had been her best friend and her worst enemy, had started a fucking game, taunting her.

Because Quinn had always thought she could beat her.

She wanted to play? Fine.

Santana would decimate her. There was no other option.

There was more on the line than just a fake name and an Intersect.

The last time Santana had heard anything about Rachel Berry was when Brittany had sent her an email to tell her they were thinking about becoming roommates in Los Angeles.

Santana believed enough in her promise to keep Brittany safe to die for it.

If Quinn was stupid enough to get in the way of that, to throw Rachel and Brittany and their past in the mix and think it was just a fucking complication? Then, all the better.

Even after all this time, Quinn had no clue who she was messing with.

* * *

><p>"Brittany. Brittany!"<p>

Brittany had always been a vivid dreamer, but they had never frightened her.

Usually, she thought of her dreams as alternate worlds; safe havens where fantasy merged with what was real and she could ride a unicorn or talk to her cat and no one would ever think her strange.

This felt different. Her brain felt heavy, weighting down her head and making it hard to move. And there were no dreams. Just a heavy blackness that made her uneasy.

Awareness came to her like little pricks of pain, tapping into her brain and making her wince.

Rachel's voice, booming into her like it was coming from one of Coach Sylvester's old megaphones didn't help.

"Brittany, you're scaring me now."

She frowned, felt her mouth stretch into an achy frown, but kept her eyes shut tight.

Fingers grabbed hold of her and shook, making her brain and the pricks digging into it rattle.

"Rachel, go away," she mumbled.

"I can't go away. You're on the floor of my bedroom, passed out."

_Oh. _

Brittany opened her eyes blearily. Staring down at her was a frighteningly close-up image of Rachel, who had a large nose and flared nostrils, and big brown eyes.

"You should blow your nose," Brittany informed her helpfully with a weak, strained voice. "I can see stuff."

Rachel frowned. Brittany turned her head, and winced at the sunlight streaming in though the window. "Is it daytime?"

"It's morningtime," Rachel corrected, in that voice that she only used when she was severely displeased. "Are you okay? I called and left you like, three messages to tell you shooting was running late and I'd be crashing in my dressing room. You never answered. "

The actual hardness of Rachel's floor finally seemed to sink in, and it occurred to Brittany that her body was actually stiff. She struggled to push off of the wood, aided by Rachel when the other woman tugged at her shoulder.

"Um..." she glanced down, intensely bewildered. "I think I spent the night here."

"You think?"

Her headache wasn't going away. Brittany was exhausted.

"Um... Yeah." She rubbed hard at her head. "Is it ringing? There's ringing. I want to scrub my brain."

"Did you pass out?"

"I guess?"

"Are you okay? I know a passable amount of First Aid but if there's any chance of a concussion-"

Brittany was in no mood for letting Rachel make her go cross-eyed. "No," she said, wincing when her voice went raspy. "No I didn't hit my head or anything. I don't think I did. I was just standing here and then-"

"Oh my God." Rachel's voice morphed into pure panic. "What happened to my computer?"

Brittany arched her head. Where Rachel's laptop had resided there only remained a black, smoldering brick of plastic and electronics.

"Wow," she said. "That's... that's..."

"That's dead!" Rachel shrieked. "Oh My God- My files-"

"Let me see..."

"What happened?"

Brittany tried hard to remember. "I don't... Um..." Her mind, feeling more sluggish and uncooperative than usual, refused to come up with a single reason as to why Rachel's computer suddenly imploded.

"Maybe there was a virus on it?" she tried feebly, reaching out a hesitant finger to the dead piece of plastic. "Or a short? I can probably save the hard drive..."

"But what happened?"

"I don't know!" Brittany winced at the shouting, and rubbed hard at her face. "I don't ... " She couldn't even conjure up an actual reason for still being in Rachel's bedroom. "You had a spreadsheet and it didn't have Santana's name on it-"

"So you blew up my computer!"

"No!" Brittany gathered up the laptop, poking at the singed monitor. "I can get your data off of it at work."

Rachel didn't respond; instead opting to regard her strangely. "I'm sorry," she said, voice suddenly gentle. "About not including Santana on the list. Given the circumstances-"

The tremble of Brittany's heart was too painful. Brittany shook her head, swallowing hard. "It's okay. I know it's stupid. I'll fix your computer-"

"Brittany-"

She was saved from any rehashing when Rachel's cell phone rang, buzzing from somewhere in her overflowing purse.

Brittany shut her mouth and ducked her head, plucking the cables away from Rachel's dead laptop, careful to leave the lone piece of paper that had survived underneath it in place.

Rachel sighed, loud and intrusive, before she fumbled into her bag and pulled out her cellphone. "This is Rachel Berry." Rachel's heels tapped, tapped against the floor in an annoyed rhythm, until they faltered suddenly. "Quinn! Quinn Fabray?"

Quinn Fabray. Brittany blinked and stumbled, nearly dropping the laptop.

Rachel's already round eyes went wider, but she was once again distracted by the caller. Who was Quinn.

Brittany's brain itched, and she shook it, trying to clear the sudden weird images that it wanted to conjure up.

"You're in LA? Today?" Rachel checked her watch, and shrugged helplessly at Brittany. "Um... well I've been working all night, but... of course, it would be lovely to see you, Quinn... yes, I guess now might work- of course. Sure. Sure. Quinn-" Rachel frowned, lowering the phone. "She must have been disconnected."

"What's a Fulcrum?"

"What?"

Brittany bit her lip and clutched the laptop to her chest, frowning hard. "Nothing. I just... Quinn's here? Quinn Fabray?"

"In LA on some last minute business," Rachel nodded, looking thoughtful. "She wants to meet for an early brunch right away."

Brittany felt nauseous. Uneasy.

The images of Quinn, a thousand images that burst upon her consciousness the second she had heard it was her on the phone... that was weird. That was really, really weird.

"Um... I have to go to work," she mumbled, and took Rachel's laptop with her. "I'll fix this."

"Brittany? Are you okay?"

Brittany paused, and took in a hard, unsure breath. "Yeah," she said, and managed a smile she didn't quite feel. "Totally. Say hi to Quinn for me," she said, and didn't tell Rachel to be careful, even if she suddenly wanted to.

It just felt silly.

* * *

><p>Rachel Berry would never admit to double checking her hair and makeup before she stepped out of the car and rounded the corner to the café where Quinn said she would be waiting.<p>

She wouldn't admit to stalling a bit, biting her lip nervously and feeling like an insecure teen freak at just the first glimpse of the glint of perfectly shiny blonde hair and a familiar red pout.

But the fact remained that in high school, Quinn Fabray had been both the head cheerleader who liked to torture her for the heck of it and the most conventionally beautiful person Rachel had ever known in real life.

Even now, eight years later, in her fashionably chic designer jeans and boots and a bored looking expression on a face partially hidden by expensive looking tinted sunglasses, Quinn was breathtakingly beautiful.

And this was Hollywood. It took a lot to get noticed here. The average of conventionally beautiful people was obscenely high.

All it took was one look at Quinn and suddenly Rachel felt awkward in her own skin, too aware of her big nose and her short stature, and every flaw Quinn had been only too happy to point out in high school.

Quinn caught sight of her, and her perfect mouth curled into a perfect smile, hand rising in a greeting, waving Rachel over.

Rachel sucked in a steadying breath.

She wasn't that girl anymore: that insecure high school teen who only had her voice and talent to offer and used them as collateral to bargain for friends. Who clung to Finn like a safety net and felt lonely all the while.

She had forged a life here, even with countless doors slammed into her face because of her nose and stature and everything else.

She could face Quinn as an equal.

Maybe even as a friend.

Rachel shook that thought off immediately. It was weak and silly, after all this time, to still want to try and win over Quinn so sincerely.

Squaring her shoulders, Rachel weaved her way around the patio tables, and a genuine smile formed on her face as she approached the still gorgeous Quinn Fabray.

"Rachel!" Quinn's voice was sugary sweet, genuinely glad to see her. When she clasped her hand, she wasn't content to just shake it, but she pulled forward, pressing her lips into Rachel's cheek. "It's been forever!"

Quinn's perfume was scented with lilacs and something musky and spicy.

It was entrancingly perfect.

Rachel expected nothing less.

"Quinn! You look... you look great," she said, breathlessly sincere as her eyes roved over Quinn's flawless skin and toned body.

"Thank you." Quinn took the compliment completely in stride. "So do you," she answered, and seemed so sweet about it, it caused a flush of uncontrolled pleasure to shiver down Rachel's spine. "Though I see you haven't quite given up on those short skirts," Quinn continued, head tilting to inspect the skirt that, as Rachel took her seat, rose to mid-thigh.

It made Rachel feel like an idiot. She flushed, and squirmed in her seat. "Well," she began, "Well... the show's stylist thinks they make my legs look longer."

A muscle in Quinn's jaw ticked, but her eyes, masked by the dark sunglasses, were unreadable. "They do," she said, as her mouth curved into a familiar smirk.

Rachel took in an unsteady breath.

"I'll just have a coffee, if that's okay," Quinn said, interrupting before Rachel could say a word. "I don't have that much time after all, so..."

It was an absolute relief. "No," Rachel said, bobbing her head like a monkey. "That's fine. I don't have much time myself. I have some lines to memorize."

"That's right." Quinn settled back in her chair, regarding her with a lazy smile. "You're a soap actress."

Rachel told herself that the way Quinn said 'soap actress' did not mean to come off as it might as well have been 'hobo'.

"It's the third highest daytime show in it's timeslot," Rachel offered lamely.

"That's great," Quinn, and it would have sounded like she was gushing if Rachel wasn't so terrified that it sounded like mockery. "Good for you."

"Right." Rachel's smile was uncertain. "So."

"So, how are you?" Quinn asked smoothly.

Rachel wasn't feeling nearly as easy going. "I'm fine," she answered. "How are you?"

Quinn didn't respond, not at first. Instead she only studied Rachel, like she was waiting for something.

Rachel didn't know what to do.

"Any blackouts recently?" Quinn asked, pointed and a little firm. "Nausea?"

Rachel blinked at the oddness of the question. "Not recently, no." Quinn's frown, there for a second, was gone just as quickly. "So, I was a little surprised to hear from you." Rachel smiled valiantly. "I mean, after all these years, and when we talked yesterday, I got the feeling you weren't too pleased to hear from me."

"I apologize for that, Rachel." When Quinn reached forward, covered Rachel's hand with her own, the movement was so quick it nearly caused Rachel to jump out of her seat. "The truth is, after hearing the sad, terrible news about Santana, I got to thinking that maybe it was time to reconnect with old friends. The people I lost touch with: tell them how much they really meant to me before it was too late."

Rachel blinked, overwhelmed. "But you hated me in high school," she stammered.

Quinn's smile grew. "Can I be honest, Rachel?"

The idea was terrifying. "Sure," Rachel said, and then shivered when Quinn's finger dragged along Rachel's palm. The tingle it produced was mortifying.

Quinn reached up, pulled off her sunglasses, and then Rachel was greeted with the absolute brilliance of Quinn's eyes.

They stared deep into her, like they were looking inside of her, at her very soul.

Quinn had never, ever looked at her like that in high school.

Rachel's knees snapped together.

"Whatever our differences were," Quinn began, voice soft and husky. "I always really admired you. And even though I said I hated you, truthfully, I thought you were the most beautiful girl at McKinley."

"Really?" Rachel squeaked, and flushed immediately.

Quinn nodded somberly. "Inside and out. I couldn't wait another day to tell you that. It meant that much to me."

"Um..." Rachel felt suddenly dizzy, unsure what to do with herself. "Wow."

When Quinn's finger smoothed against the most sensitive part of her wrist and swiped gently across it, she settled for reaching for a glass of water and taking a huge gulp.

* * *

><p>What was going on in her head felt like a hangover, but Brittany didn't remember drinking anything.<p>

It didn't seem fair.

Swallowing down some Advil, Brittany adjusted her tie and pulled her satchel over her shoulder. It was heavier than usual, weighted down with Rachel's burnt out computer, and honestly, Brittany felt a fair amount of remorse over that.

Except, Brittany didn't remember getting mad enough over the spreadsheet to fry it. She didn't even think she knew how to cause a short this bad.

She didn't even know if she could save the hard drive, though Rachel didn't really need to know that.

One thing hadn't changed since high school; Rachel still over-reacted like crazy.

Frowning, Brittany reached for her keys. The images, the ones she had seen when Rachel said she was going to meet up with Quinn, they were seared into her brain. Vivid, like files, and Brittany liked to make up stuff, she did, but it had never been this... real.

It made her uneasy, unsure, and it was because of that that Brittany picked up her phone and called Rachel.

When it went to voicemail, Brittany bit her lip, unsure how to even begin to explain what she was trying to say.

"Hi Rachel," she finally said, a fake cheer in her voice. "I just... there's something going on in my head. Like this... it's kind of like a file cabinet? I mean... it says that Quinn's... she's with something called Fulcrum? You know what, I'm crazy. Don't worry about it. Just... call me. Okay? I want to know you're safe. I don't..." The words stuck in Brittany's throat with a sudden swell of emotion. "Um, I just want to know you're safe. That's all."

Brittany hung up the phone, and stuffed it in her pocket, heading for the door.

Outside of the apartment building, she passed a man fixing a window.

She never met him once in her life. She was sure of that.

The gazillion images that came to her the moment she saw him told her otherwise—that he was with the something called Fulcrum. That his name was John Ramos.

That he had a gun.

Suddenly terrified, Brittany lowered her head and walked past him.

_It's stupid_, she told herself. _You're crazy. If he was with the government, why would he be fixing a window? _

Brittany got to her car and fumbled with the door, pulling it open and sliding into the MiniCooper with the emblazoned logo 'Nerd Herd'.

She just needed to make it to work.

Brittany prayed that the Advil would kick in before then, and then the flashes would stop. She didn't understand them. They didn't make sense.

_Please_, she prayed. _Just make them stop. _

* * *

><p>So Rachel Berry was a little bit lesbian.<p>

Who knew?

Quinn settled back in her seat and fought the urge to preen like a damn cat.

Fate, it seemed, had been handing her gems like she deserved them, and Quinn was not above making use of any advantage that she had.

Including the fact that she knew Rachel gobbled up compliments like a newborn guzzled milk. That Rachel blushed a cherry tomato red every time she touched her. That she seemed so nervous and awe-struck she came off like a damn teenager.

Quinn had come a long way since her conservative days in Lima. Oh, she still believed in the right to bear arms, but good looks were universal, and her job required getting closer to an intended target by any means necessary, using every weapon in her arsenal.

Consequently, Quinn had seduced more than her fair share of women.

The lovemaking was surprisingly good. In Quinn's line of work, there wasn't much time for a sexual identity crisis or big thoughts on whether or not it was a sin. Work was work, and though privately, Quinn would admit that she enjoyed the female seductions more than the male, it was only because, in her opinion, the women were always harder.

And there wasn't any chance of getting pregnant.

Still, going this route with Rachel Berry had been unexpected. She had expected to use Rachel's unchanging vanity to get to the woman. She hadn't expected be so openly salivated over, to the point where Quinn might as well have been on a stripper pole.

An experimental touch, a bat of the eyes, and Rachel looked almost ready to propose marriage.

It was disappointingly easy.

Quinn didn't want to process why exactly that was.

Her livelihood depended on extracting what she wanted from Rachel without Rachel realizing it as quickly as possible.

With Santana's cover blown, Quinn knew it was only a matter of time before the army figured out exactly where she sent the Intersect, and they would descend on Brittany and Rachel's apartment like locusts.

Quieter was better, and that meant taking Rachel away with Rachel's own permission.

If Rachel had actually gotten the email.

Which, it seemed, she genuinely hadn't.

"I'm sorry, Quinn." Rachel thumbed through her blackberry, scrolling through messages. "I don't see it. What did you say the subject was?"

"Surprise," she repeated, and clenched her jaw to keep the frustrated glare from emerging.

"I don't see it." Rachel frowned. "There's a voicemail from Brittany. Do you mind if I listen to it? She's got me really worried."

Quinn arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" Her expression was carefully constructed to be casually concerned. "Santana again?"

"No. Well, yes, but... no. I don't know what she did, but she was in my room last night, and... I told you she's kind of been in a bad place... she must have done something to short out my computer. I found her this morning, sprawled out on my floor..."

Quinn's fingers curled into a fist, the easy smile fading from her mouth.

Rachel listened to the message, and her mouth pursed. "What's Fulcrum?" she asked her, and then shook her head in confusion.

Quinn inhaled sharply.

What had happened came together easily, and quickly. The email she had sent, meant for Rachel, had obviously been opened by Brittany. Which meant Brittany now had a working Intersect in her brain.

Brittany S. Pierce.

Who couldn't figure out how to tie her shoes until junior year.

That Brittany.

_Awesome. _

"Something wrong?" she asked lightly, when Rachel lowered the phone.

"I'm so sorry, Quinn." Rachel's brow was furrowed. Her eyes were concerned. "I'm really worried about Brittany. She's acting so...odd. Even for Brittany. I think I should go."

The easy smile stayed on Quinn's face. "Why don't I go with you?" she asked. "If something's wrong, maybe I can help."

Rachel looked uncertain. "I thought you said you had another engagement."

Quinn pushed out her chair and rose to her feet. "Honestly, Rachel? At the moment I can't think of anything more important than reconnecting with you and helping Brittany."

The look on Rachel's face when she smiled, thrilled and wanting so desperately to believe in this Quinn Fabray, caused an odd disconcerting feeling to flutter across Quinn's senses.

For the first time since Rachel had approached her at this table, Quinn felt a glimmer of her true self fight through the façade and it made her heart literally _throb_.

Smile growing unsteady, Quinn swallowed hard. An irrational spark of anger floated inside of her, and once again, it was easy to blame it on Rachel, with her dimpled smile and the surprising way she had grown into her looks.

She waited until Rachel's back was turned, ad then signaled to her team of agents that had been standing by to take Rachel away.

She ordered them to hold off. For now.

* * *

><p>After all the tap-dancing that she did to avoid the obvious Fulcrum agents standing guard outside of Rachel's apartment, breaking in was the easy part.<p>

And even that wasn't easy at all.

The faded writing on the mailboxes had explicitly stated that this apartment was co-habited: Pierce and Berry.

Edging the door open, gun gripped loosely and aimed in front of her, Santana tried to tell herself to treat this as if it was just another assignment.

Except she couldn't. It was literally beyond her comprehension, because even the hallway smelled like Brittany.

It permeated the air, and starved, she breathed it deep into her nostrils, taking in with it a thousand memories that had never been erased. Instead, they had been locked down, tempered, placed in boxes and compartments that Santana could file and manage in an effort to not bleed so damn much.

Brittany had always been her greatest strength and her biggest weakness.

Santana's grip trembled, her eyes watered.

"Fuck," she whispered, and sucked in a soldiering breath, reaching up with her shoulder to wipe a suddenly wet cheek on the collar of her black shirt before she edged forward.

Floorboards creaked underneath her boots, but there were no answering scuffles in return.

Her heart began to pound, and Santana inhaled again through her nose, struggling to keep her breath even, her mind clear.

She could be too late. Quinn could have already come and gone.

But there was nothing disturbed beyond the usual clutter in certain areas that must have been on account of Brittany.

A jacket lay strewn on a chair. Santana resisted the urge to touch it, smell it, and weep into it like a motherfucking baby.

Instead, she exhaled again and moved forward.

On the desk in the hallway, closer to the kitchen, Santana discovered a discarded Nerd Herd ID Badge.

With an unsteady grip, she took it between her fingers, and just looked. It was the same size and width of her NSA badge, but instead of Santana's stern expression, Brittany smiled at the camera.

It was the first time she had allowed herself to see Brittany, or any image of her, since she had entered the program.

In her dazed mind, Santana could only manage a dizzy, disbelieving, laugh. "Brittany is a Nerd Herder?"

The twist of a key in the door, the sudden bleat of a loud voice that could only ever belong to Rachel Berry, caused a startled Santana to slip the badge into her pocket and slide quickly into the nearest adjoining doorway.

It was a bathroom.

Santana flattened herself against the wall, and didn't breathe.

"Brittany?" Definitely Rachel Berry. "Brittany? Are you here?"

Nothing.

"I brought Quinn!"

_Quinn. _Santana's jaw tightened. Her finger slid quietly to her trigger.

"Brittany?" The floorboard creaked again, this time with the weight of two individuals. When steps moved in her direction, Santana reacted quickly, silently squeezing behind the door. The dark head of Rachel peeked in, mercifully in every direction but directly where she was hidden. "She's not here. Oh, God, I hope she didn't go to work like that."

She ducked back out again. Closing her eyes, Santana checked her safety, and didn't move.

"She's not answering her cellphone. Quinn, I'm really worried."

"Rachel..." Quinn's tone positively dripped with fabricated concern. "This is very important. Did Brittany mention anything to you specifically about opening my email to you?"

Santana's heart jumped, so loud she could actually hear the beat drum against her chest.

_Fuck,_ she thought, filled with sudden morbid dread. _No, please God no-_

"Quinn," Rachel sounded exasperated. "I told you, she didn't. I wasn't even home last night. I came home this morning, and she was on the floor passed out, and the computer was shorted out. She didn't remember anything, but she was acting weird, and then you called me."

_SHIT. _Her chest tightened to the point of suffocation, as a horrible, horrible realization flooded inside of her.

"But she specifically mentioned Fulcrum?"

_This isn't real life,_ Santana thought helplessly. _This can't be fucking happening. The Intersect has NOT been downloaded into my girlfriend's brain. _

Brittany downloaded the Intersect into her brain.

Brittany.

Santana struggled to hold on to herself, to keep still, even as her very world came apart.

"Twice, come to think of it. Quinn, is there something you're not telling me?"

"Rachel, do you trust me?"

_Say no,_ Santana pleaded silently. _Grow a brain and realize you haven't seen her in years, and it's weird that she just suddenly shows up here, unannounced. Say that she obviously wants something, and you need to know what that is. _

"Quinn, you're scaring me. Why wouldn't I trust you?"

Santana winced in frustration, biting hard into her lower lip. _Because she's a fucking hypocrite,_ Santana thought furiously_, because she lied to every person she's claimed to love, and the one fucking selfless thing she's ever done is give up a baby that she's never seen since the minute she popped it out. _

"Rachel, I haven't been completely honest with you. I did come to reconnect with you, but that isn't the only reason I came to Los Angeles so quickly. The truth is, I'm a secret agent, working for the government."

Santana's eyes rolled up into her head, fighting to contain her exasperated sigh.

"What?"

"That email I sent you? It contains a really dangerous file, and I had to keep it safe. That's why I sent it to you. You were the only person I could think of to trust it with."

Quinn's tone was so very sincere. All sugary sweetness and dripping with honey, appealing to Rachel Berry's vanity, and skewing the truth to get exactly what she wanted, as usual.

God. And people used to think _Santana_was the evil one.

"Quinn..." Rachel, at least, had some suspicion creeping into her voice. "Are you serious? ... this is a prank, right?"

"Rachel, it's not a prank. If Brittany opened that email, then she could be in very big trouble. Some very bad people will come after her and I need to protect her."

The thought... the very idea...

It was enough to make Santana so infuriated she was literally nauseous.

Swallowing down the bile, Santana shook her head and shoved at the door, sliding into the open hallway and pointing her gun directly at Quinn Fabray's heart.

At least it would have been. It should have been. And if it had, she would have pulled the trigger, put an end to this in half a second, government rules and regulations be damned.

Except Rachel Berry was standing directly in the way, looking at her pale-faced, like she had seen a ghost.

Eyes stormy with furious indecision, Santana took her first good look at Quinn Fabray in eight years.

"You are _such_a fucking bitch," she rasped, livid in her anger. "You've got some damn nerve, you know that?"

Quinn's brief shock of coming face to face with Santana so quickly faded after a moment, and in its place came a lingering smugness.

With a slow, private grin growing on her face, Quinn stepped forward to place her hands reassuringly on Rachel's shoulders, bringing her in and making her an oblivious, but perfect human shield.

"Rachel, be careful!" Quinn said, so concerned and protective she could have been looking to win a damned Emmy.

Santana couldn't lower the gun, but to point it at Rachel...

The barrel wavered.

"Rachel," she whispered, trying to sound just as calm, just as reassuring, even as her voice shook from the emotion that coursed through her. "Move away from Quinn."

But Rachel, staring at her with wide-eyed muted surprise, could only babble and gasp. "You-You-Quinn-"

When Santana took a step forward, Quinn took one back, keeping Rachel close, and silently shaking her head dangerously at Santana, the unspoken warning glittering in her eyes.

Santana stopped.

"Santana, I won't let you do it," she said, eyes flashing dangerously. "I won't let you waltz back in here like nothing's happened."

"S-Santana?" Rachel breathed, voice barely above a whisper in her own shock. "You-"

Swallowing hard, Santana kept her focus on Quinn, moving her line of sight to Quinn's head.

She had no shot. Not without endangering Rachel. Quinn fucking knew it.

"Rachel," she began, as firmly as she could. "Listen to me very carefully."

"But you're dead," Rachel blurted, and Santana winced, heartbeat thundering erratically. "You're supposed to be dead. We had a funeral-"

"Rach-" Her voice croaked, and she choked. She wanted to explain. She didn't know how. Shaking her head in deep frustration, Santana readjusted her grip on the handle of her gun and took another half step forward.

"Santana faked her death to go rogue, Rachel." Quinn's glare glittered at her, fingers rubbing Rachel's shoulders, keeping Rachel centered right in front of her. "I didn't want to tell you. I knew it would hurt you. But she's the bad guy. She's after what I sent you."

_Goddammit_. Santana sighed raggedly, finger itching on her trigger as a flash of hate rose in her.

"Rachel, she's lying."

Rachel's wide brown eyes were nearly liquid now, and she leaned into Quinn, borrowing her strength as she stared at Santana.

She wouldn't stop fucking staring.

"You... you didn't fake your death?"

Santana winced. "Okay, she's not lying about that," she admitted, and immediately she knew it was the wrong thing to say. Rachel looked fucking wounded. "But don't believe anything she says, Rachel. I'm here to protect you. To help Brittany."

"Do you really think she'll believe you?"

"Shut the FUCK up, Quinn!"

"When you're the one pointing a gun at her?"

"I'm not pointing a gun at her," she pointed out helpfully. "I'm pointing it at you. If you weren't such a damn coward you'd stop using her as a damn shield."

And maybe that got through to Rachel, because the conflicted dark eyes rose from the gun in Santana's hands to Quinn, standing behind her, clutching her so damn closely.

Quinn's smirk faltered, but only for a moment. With a glint in her eye, she lifted her chin and arched a brow. "Why should she trust anything you say, Santana? You're not who you were. The Santana we knew wouldn't fake her death, knowing what it would do to Brittany."

Quinn might as well have taken that same knife that she had shoved between Santana's shoulder blades junior year and stabbed her in the heart.

The statement hit Santana like a blow, and she nearly stumbled from the impact from it.

Quinn's face was unreadable.

"You know it as well as I do, Rachel."

"Rachel," Santana tried, even though her voice was scratchy and her hands were shaking. "I need you to trust me and listen to me. Yes, I faked my death. I did it for a very good reason. But Quinn? She's the bad guy. She's stolen a very important government weapon. She's a liar, and a killer, and she's using you."

But Quinn didn't need to say anything. Santana could see it in Rachel's face, in those ever expressive eyes.

And the way she looked at Santana... it was chilling.

She was seeing her, but she was seeing a stranger.

"You... faked your death," Rachel said slowly, voice low and soft, aching in disbelief. "Why would you do that? How could you do that to Brittany?"

Santana pressed her mouth together, and shook her head slowly.

"You destroyed her. You killed her-"

"I was trying to protect her."

"By breaking her?" Rachel's voice cracked in righteous fury. "She blamed herself! Santana, she doesn't even dance!"

The lump in her throat was painful now, and Santana had to gulp and wince to swallow it away. "Rachel," she began, as kindly as she dared. "I'm going to reach into my pocket very slowly, and I'm going to show you my badge. It's going to prove to you that I'm one of the good guys."

"Don't fall for it, Rachel." Quinn's voice was dark, as sly as a serpent's. "She'll shoot us both without blinking. Santana's a killer."

"She's lying, Rachel," Santana snapped, pleading for her to believe her.

"You haven't killed anyone?" Rachel asked, and god-dammit, why the hell did she focus on the fucking wrong things?

"No, I have." Rachel blanched, stepped back, and Santana felt a shudder of desperation go through her. "Rachel, but they were all bad!"

She had been suckered into playing Quinn's game, and she was losing. Badly.

She was over it. Rachel's injured sensibilities could go to hell.

"Rachel, I don't have time for this," she snapped. "Get the fuck out of the way, or I will shoot you and not give a damn."

She was so involved in her own emotional trauma, courtesy of Quinn Fabray, she didn't notice the man sneaking up behind her until Rachel's eyes drifted from hers, and the floorboard creaked.

She swiveled, just in time to see a man in a dark jacket lifting up a gun with a silencer.

Instinct overtook her, and she fired. Point blank. Into his chest.

Rachel's horrifying cry bled into her ears, as the man staggered back, stumbling into the desk and sending a lamp tumbling.

The wound on his side began to seep; a dark stain spreading on his shirt.

The door opened wider, and another goon with a gun entered, popping a shot at her that grazed her arm.

She backpedaled, lost sight of Rachel in the fray.

As she jerked into the kitchen, bullets chinked into tile, and Santana had no choice.

She shot once, twice, and then grabbed hold of the steel railing that held Rachel's pots and pans, vaulting herself over the counter and crashing through the glass window above it.

Landing clumsily on the lawn, and Santana rolled into a running sprint. She ran; away from Rachel, Quinn's goons, and the mess of a scene she had just created.

Santana made it to her car, jerking into her seat and shutting the door. Her heart was hammering. Her chest was tight. She couldn't breathe.

She had proved Quinn's damn point. Been used as a pawn, her weaknesses glaring and open and seeping and perfect for Quinn to take advantage of.

She wanted to kick something. Wanted to scream. Wanted to murder Quinn Fabray with her bare hands.

Instead, she took a moment to breathe, and then turned on the ignition, glancing over her shoulder to check for traffic before peeling out into the street.

This wasn't about Quinn anymore.

As she drove, Santana dug into her pocket and found the little hard rectangle of plastic she had hurriedly stuffed away.

From the Nerd Herd ID Badge, Brittany smiled at her.


	4. Chapter 3

**TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress  
>AUTHOR: Misty Flores<strong>

**PART THREE**

_Well, after all that we've been through  
>Would you still call this love, baby?<br>'Cause love's the only proof  
>That the ugly could be beautiful.<em>  
>-'The Ugly &amp; The Beautiful', The Real Tuesday<p>

* * *

><p>"Do you remember when we were in high school?" Rachel was shaken and afraid, vulnerable in a way that Quinn hadn't ever seen. Pale, with watery eyes and a bottom lip rubbed raw from gnawing on it with her teeth, she looked small and fragile. "Sophomore year? And we thought Glee Club was gone, but then we found out we had another year?"<p>

Quinn found herself actively listening, quietly overtaken with the memory.

"We had all become so close," Rachel breathed. Her eyes glistened, and she sniffled, blotting at the wetness of her tears with the crumpled Kleenex in her palm. "I really believed that we had become a family."

Back then, Quinn had believed it too. In her naive, broken state, Quinn had believed in puppies and rainbows and that she had reached patron sainthood, because she had been a pregnant statistic and come out of it with a beautiful newborn that immediately had been granted a mother that wasn't her.

The picture was frighteningly easy to conjure up, even after all this time: the twelve of them sitting in that choir room, Brittany and Santana with their pinkies linked, whispering into each other's ears, Rachel smiling bright with unshed tears and Quinn above her, with one hand wrapped in Mercedes' and the other in Kurt's, listening to Mr. Schue and Puck strum on their guitars and sing with honey smooth voices about a place over the rainbow where skies were blue and dreams came true.

God, they had been so young and stupid back then.

Now, a re-risen Santana was out there somewhere wanting to literally murder her. Brittany- slow, silly, Brittany- most likely had a government superweapon downloaded into her brain, and had no idea she was going to be kidnapped and taken because of it.

Rachel's apartment was littered with shattered glass and bullet holes, and Fulcrum agents stepped over Brittany and Rachel's things like they were meaningless, speaking in low voices, acting the part of the government agents Quinn claimed they were.

Quinn had her own part to play, and to this point, she had played it well, and even enjoyed doing it. It had been a thrill, to be who she had become and meet up again with these facets of her past, back when she had been her weakest, her most vulnerable.

Sitting here, in Rachel's impossibly pink bedroom, with Rachel's sweaty palms tangled so tightly in hers the knuckles had gone white, brought about a different emotion.  
>Quinn wouldn't call it guilt, but there was a sobering reality to this game.<p>

"I just... I can't believe Santana... She had her faults, but I would never have imagined she would betray Brittany like that." Rachel's voice shook a little. "Willingly leave her. Let Brittany blame herself. She shot someone, Quinn. She nearly killed a government agent, just like it was nothing."

Quinn was good at what she did. She was better than Santana, and had proved it. Had proven that there were no qualms about using Santana's 'death' against her, turning Rachel with simple lies that manipulated the truth so easily.

Believe the lie. Use it. Transform it. Make it your own. Quinn had always been a master of that. Even in high school.

_"I don't care if this baby comes out with a Mohawk," _she remembered telling Puck once._ "I'll go to the grave saying this baby is Finn's." _

Her fingers twitched, brushing against Rachel's. Rachel mistook the movement for comfort, and wrapped her other hand around hers, drawing it into her lap.

Quinn glanced up sharply, met a gaze that was poignant with loss and despair, shared commiseration.

Suddenly uneasy, Quinn broke the stare, and instead caught the eye of Fuller. The other Fulcrum agent stared at her from the open doorway, with a pointed, impatient glare.

It was reminder of who she had become. One she desperately needed.

Exhaling raggedly, Quinn slid off the bed and knelt before Rachel.

"Rachel," she began, quietly and softly, lifting up a finger to gently wipe at Rachel's tears. "War changes people. Santana ...she's a victim of circumstance. She's not who she was before. The person you saw now, the one who would have killed me and you? She's a very dangerous person. And now she's after Brittany."

"But do you really think she'd hurt her?" Rachel's voice was ragged, stained with miserable disbelief. "Santana loved Brittany. She loved her. Even I knew that."

Quinn hesitated, as a moment from before flashed in her brain; the image of Santana's face the second Quinn mentioned Brittany. She looked like she had been slapped, stripped bare.

Yes, Santana loved Brittany. Even now, it was impossible to miss.

Quinn clenched Rachel's hands. The conflicted, sad smile pasted deliberately on her face was easy to produce. "Loved," she said, just the right tone of regretful and sad. "Past tense. She's not our Santana anymore, Rachel. She's been swallowed up by the rogue agency that turned her. And she'll do whatever she has to get the Intersect for herself. She'll use anyone, even someone she claimed was family."

Looking at their tangled hands, as Rachel's dark eyes stared at her with absolute trust, Quinn couldn't help but note the irony, in using those words against Santana.

Rachel's gaze hid nothing. Her naked emotion was open and raw, displayed for Quinn like a road map.

Quinn had lived in a world of liars and cheats and killers for what seemed like an eternity. How the hell had she forgotten people like this existed?

How the hell had she forgotten the fact that at some point, she had considered Rachel... Brittany... even Santana... to be some sort of family?

An ache, pulsing and deep, jabbed inside her like a splinter in her heart.

It threw her. Things like guilt and sympathy had no place in this line of work. Disassociation meant the difference between life and death.

But Quinn had already made the blunder, when she sent an email in angry resentment because she dared to feel loss when she heard about Santana's death. Because just Rachel's voice brought about every weakness Quinn hated in herself.

"We need to find Brittany before she does," she finally managed. "If you help us, we can keep her safe."

"She works at the Buy More in Burbank," Rachel whispered softly. "She has a shift there today."

It was what they needed. Rachel had filled her purpose, and Quinn had done her job.

The validation she felt wasn't nearly as thrilling as she wanted it to be.

She nodded soberly, rising to her feet. When Rachel stared up at her, she looked so lost and dramatically frightened, Quinn almost smiled. "We're going to find her," she promised. "We'll keep her safe." Hesitation caused another glance at the door. "Until we track down Santana," she continued, "You're not safe either. We're going to leave two agents here with you."

Dark eyes floated to the hallway, and Rachel's lips quivered, ready to argue.

"It's for the best," Quinn said, interrupting smoothly. "You can trust me, Rachel."

She pressed her palm gently into Rachel's cheek, a calculating move meant to simply comfort and reassure Rachel.

Rachel's shaken smile appeared. A hand reached up and covered her own, and Quinn found her stomach dropping when the other woman leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering entirely too sweetly.

"Thank you." Rachel's hand lingered. "Quinn."

The tingle was so unnerving Quinn could only nod mutely and fight not to snatch her hand away. Extricating herself as gently as she could, she offered one last reassuring smile and turned towards Fuller.

Her smile dropped the second she shut the door behind her.

Fuller looked simultaneously annoyed and amused. "Touching," he drawled sarcastically. "Having fun reconnecting, Fabray?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "Shut up," she snapped, and ignored the heated flush of her cheeks, the way her heart thumped oddly. "Brittany's at the Buy More."

He nodded, snapping his finger to the other agents. "Figured as much. What should we do with the drama queen in there?"

Still unnerved, Quinn didn't look at the closed door. "Leave Ramos and Sandy here to keep an eye on her." When Fuller smirked, her eyes narrowed in steely resolve. "I'm serious. They don't touch her. Keep them outside and make sure they know to leave her alone. She thinks they're here to protect her."

"We need the men to extract the Intersect. We should just take care of her now."

They had had similar conversations on more than a dozen separate occasions. Never before, had it sent such a chill through her.

"Are you serious?" Her angry hiss produced a surprised brow raise from Fuller. "She's a _soap actress." _

"We've done it for less serious offenses."

The joke wasn't funny. She didn't laugh. Instead, Quinn stared again at the closed door, and imagined Rachel behind it, terrified and waiting for Quinn to come back and save her like a damn hero.

Fuller thrust his arms in his pockets. "Look, I realize this is some sort of high school reunion, and you guys were some sort of lesbian scissor buddies-"

"We hated each other in high school," she snapped without thinking.

"-but she knows too much, Quinn."

Quinn crossed her arms, lips pursing. She refused to agree, even if she might have in any other situation. "She knows what I've told her."

"And that's still too much." At her stony face, Fuller frowned. "You know Andrews would agree with me."

The mention of their mutual superior, the thinly veiled threat to tell on her, only succeeded in pissing her off. "And according to Andrews, I'm still in charge," she reminded him, voice hard and firm.

Fuller's frown only deepened, but he said nothing.

"We keep her alive while she's still useful to us. We're after the Intersect, and we still don't have it yet. Until we do, the less muck we have to clean up, the better."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you sent some nobody the Intersect and then pissed off the dead fiancé who just happens to be a government agent. I'm just saying," he added, when Quinn shot him a dark glare. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>From the home theater section of the Burbank Buy More, Rihanna's 'Disturbia' began to pulse.<p>

Almost immediately, Bob, his tie askew from the constant tugging, began to bob his head to the music, hips swaying, looking every inch the stereotype of the nerdy white guy who was trying way too hard.

"Come on, Brittany!" His smile at her bordered on lewd, hands raised in fists as he pumped to the beat. "Shake your groove thing."

Brittany wasn't in any mood to shake anything. Exhaustion had seeped into her muscles, and it made them ache in a way she only felt after a particularly brutal run, with none of the exhilaration and excitement that usually accompanied a dance routine, or a Cheerios set.

It made her feel ugly, even though she knew she wasn't.

"I don't dance," she reminded him, and going back to studying the fried motherboard of Rachel's computer, ignored the way he kept bobbing at her, mouthing the words to the song.

It was weird. Rachel always thought that Brittany had a choice, but in reality, Brittany had always thought of dance as a magical gift. The urge to move had always come from inside of her, and it seemed like this livable, breathable thing.

That same place had been occupied by Santana. She kind of thought of them as intertwined, and it had never seemed like such a big deal until the Tragedy, and that livable, breathable thing had been suffocated.

Brittany didn't know how to explain it, other than that it felt like there was this huge, unbearable weight tapped down on it, and she could no longer feel that same connection.

She could go through the motions, but for Brittany, who, Santana once said, could dance like it was a religious experience, faking it was almost like blasphemy.

And she wouldn't do it. Not for Rachel. Not for Bob, who looked like an idiot, staring at her with this hopeful, lewd expression that meant he wanted to get into her hot nerd-girl pants.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay?" Bob stopped his idiotic spastic movement, but his focus was still on her, now looking concerned.

The Advil hadn't helped with her headache, but at least it was fading.

The flashing... Brittany didn't know if that was fading or not. It could have been a fluke. Brittany wanted very badly for it to be a fluke.

It made her afraid to look at anything or anybody, because then her brain might make up all these crazy facts about everyone that she was sure couldn't be true.

"I hit my head last night," she said, and it wasn't really a lie. There was a bruise on the back of her head that Brittany was fairly certain came from her landing hard on Rachel's floor. "I think I did something to my roommate's computer."

Bob leaned over, and whistled slowly. "Dude, what happened?"

"I fried it."

Picking up a melted bit of plastic, he only arched a brow. "And by frying it, do you mean literally? Like, dipped it in a vat of hot oil? Cause this thing is straight up murdered."

Brittany wanted badly to push him away. Instead, she pressed her lips together and inhaled sharply through her nose, rubbing at her temples.

The desk phone rang between them, and dimly, Brittany heard Bob answer it with the required, "Nerd Herd, this is Bob. One moment please."

A moment later, he was pressing the plastic against her forearm. "Speak of the devil. It's your roommate." Brittany glanced up sharply, her heart thumping in actual relief. "She's gonna kick your ass when she finds out what you did to her baby."

Brittany couldn't care. She grabbed the phone. "Rachel?"

"Oh, thank GOD. Why aren't you answering your cell phone? I've been calling you all morning!"

It was Rachel. Dramatic, silly, prone-to-overreacting Rachel, and it was such a relief, Brittany wanted to hang up the phone and burst into tears at the same time.

"Brittany!"

"I have to turn off my cellphone at work," she finally said. "You know that. Are you still with Quinn?"

"Not anymore." It was stupid to be relieved. The things in her head were just... her brain being weird, and she was used to that. She was.

"Did she know what Fulcrum meant?"

There was a pause, before Rachel began again. "Brittany, you need to listen to me, okay?" Brittany frowned. "I don't have to time to explain everything, but there was an email that Quinn sent to me, and we think you opened it."

The inference was almost insulting. "You think I opened your email?" she asked, bewildered. "You're calling me to tell me that you're pissed?"

"No!"

"You're squeaking like you're pissed."

"Brittany!" Rachel sounded exasperated. "I mean, yes normally, that would be a horrible invasion of privacy, but-"

Brittany rolled her eyes. "I'm hanging up now. "

"Brittany, you're in terrible danger!"

It was just so random and earnest and came off exactly like that scene Rachel made her watch last week that she said was going to go on her Emmy Reel.

"Are you rehearsing one of your soap scenes again?" Brittany glanced at Bob, fingered the melted computer on her desk. "Cause I'm at work right now."

"No! Brittany." Rachel huffed, the rush of air coming off like a blast over the speaker. "There was a program in that email, and if you opened it, then it downloaded into your brain. And some very bad people think that's exactly what happened, and if that's the case, they're going to come after you!"

Brittany knew Rachel was speaking English. Her brain didn't. She itched inside of her skull, trying to make what Rachel was saying mean something that she could understand.

"I have a what in my brain?"

"It makes sense! Why my computer was fried. You on the floor, passed out! That's exactly what should have happened. And have you been seeing things? Images?"

Brittany frowned, shaking her head. The points Rachel was making ticked off at her, like a check list.

A man entered the Buy More, through the sliding doors. He looked completely unfamiliar, but the second Brittany laid eyes on him, she could feel the rush; the fluttering of her eyes.

An overwhelming cascade of information poured into her. Like a google search; hit after hit. Fulcrum. Known Alias David Fuller. Contract Killer. Last assignment in Prague-

"Brittany!"

She came out of it with a hard, spastic gasp. "Like movies?" she asked, weakened and twitchy at the same time. "Yeah." The man who had triggered all those flashes was still there, standing in the aisle like he was looking for something. He turned his head, and then he saw her. "I just had one. Rachel, there's a guy in here who has killed like, a gajillion people."

Bob, in the midst of playing Bejeweled, glanced up sharply. "What's that now?"

"He's looking at me." The man who her brain said was a thief and a killer lifted up his hand and mumbled something into his cuff. And then he began the long walk up the aisle, heading straight for the Nerd Herd desk. "He's coming."

"Brittany, I need you to listen to me." Rachel was trying to sound calm. It wasn't quite working. "Quinn is on her way. You can trust her. She's going to keep you safe. You need to go to the loading docks of the Buy More and just wait for her."

Brittany couldn't move. She felt frozen, a deer lost in the headlights of an oncoming car, dizzily watching as he just kept coming, one foot in front of the other, looking straight at her.

Someone bumped into him. His blazer swished. Beneath it, Brittany glimpsed a flash of what looked like the butt of an actual gun.

Her heart nearly exploded from the sudden fear. "Rachel, he has a gun."

Bob stared at her, wide-eyed. "Who has a gun?"

"Don't wait. Just go. Brittany!"

"Okay." Brittany swallowed, gaze seared on the man who just kept coming. "I'm going."

"Hang up the phone and GO. NOW."

She went. Even though her heartbeat was stuttering, and she was sweating, and the images that flashed in her head just kept reemerging and showing her dead crime scenes and close ups of David Fuller, Brittany placed the phone back on the receiver and mumbled to Bob that she had to go.

"Brittany. Brittany, wait-"

But she didn't wait. She ducked under the counter, and used the momentum to turn herself in the direction of the employee's area. Her Converse squeaked on the tile.

Her inner Santana was on red alert, like a little mini Doberman Pinscher, ears cocked and teeth bared.

_Don't look back_, Santana told her. _Just keep going. Don't look back._

But Brittany had to look, because maybe he wasn't really chasing after her. Maybe this wasn't real. Maybe this was just another video like the ones that had been playing in her head.

Maybe Brittany really had gone crazy, and wasn't just adorably eccentric and confused, like she thought she was.

But as her head turned, she caught sight of him taking long strides after her, shoving aside a woman who had crossed into his path.

No, he was real. The fear was real. The dizziness was real, and Brittany understood things clearly enough to know that she did not want to let him catch up.

When she made it to the door that was stenciled with 'Employees Only', she was shaking so hard that she actually fumbled with the doorknob, jerking it frantically twice before she managed to push it open.

Stumbling in, Brittany found herself nearly bowling over a salesman with a stack of DVD players. "Hey! Brittany!"

She didn't stop to apologize, not when David Fuller and his gun followed her in.

Brittany began to sprint.

Ahead of her was the loading dock, bathed in sunlight, and once she got there, she would be safe.

Rachel promised it.

Loud footsteps pounded after her. "Brittany, you don't need to run!"

His assurance just made her run harder.

She burst onto the loading dock, stumbling to an erratic stop, when the pungent smell of trash made her eyes water.

The alley behind the Buy More was dirty and gross, used only for delivery and the occasional pot-smoking breaks.

"Brittany!"

Mouth dry with exertion, Brittany gulped, glancing about wildly until she saw a familiar blonde with dark sunglasses, and a blazer, stepping out of a car parked only a few feet away.

Quinn waved her hand, smiled reassuringly. "It's okay, Britt!"

Behind her, David Fuller was slowing, but Brittany was taking no chances.

Bracing herself, she jumped off the dock, landing with a crunch of glass bottle fragments and debris, stumbling on her way to meet Quinn.

She was almost there. A relieved smile began to spread on her face, when two men emerged from Quinn's car, rounding the car and coming toward her.

Her consciousness was overtaken, and she was again bombarded, this time with more information, files and pictures and videos of the men she now knew were Tom Jenkins and Marshall Haim. They all belonged to Fulcrum.

_Fulcrum. _

Brittany's relief faded with her smile. Ten feet away, Quinn removed her sunglasses.

There was no smile in her eyes.

As David Fuller hopped down behind her, as Tom and Marshall flanked her, trapped her, Brittany finally understood.

The realization made her nearly dizzy with sudden sadness. "You're the bad guy," she whispered. Quinn Fabray, her old Cheerios captain, her old friend, just looked at her. "Why would you do this?"

"I'm sorry, Brittany," Quinn said. "I really am."

It didn't mean anything. Not when she felt heavy hands clasp onto her shoulders, when the men began to push at her, shoving her towards Quinn.

Inside Brittany, there was a despair that she hadn't felt since that horrible moment when she had first come to terms with Santana's death.

It had happened when she was by herself, one night about a week after she got the call, and in her hands was Santana's Purple Heart, and a letter of appreciation, a form letter signed by the President.

"At least she died saving the world, just like she wanted," someone said at the funeral, an old ex-Cheerio who flew out with Puck.

Brittany, alone and stone-faced and not shedding one tear, had calmly turned in her chair, and cracked a fist across her face.

After the shouts, and the police report, Brittany locked herself in her room, ignoring Rachel and her pleas, and instead just looked at that Purple Heart, and that form letter.

Brittany wasn't smart, but she didn't think she was dumb either. There were a lot of things that she was unsure of, and a lot of the world didn't make a whole lot of sense to her. At times, it was frustrating, to feel like she knew so little.

But her whole life, there were things that she thought she knew absolutely. Like how to feel the perfect pop of a beat. How to roll her body in such a way it looked like art in motion.

And she had known, without any sense of doubt, that no matter what the circumstances, it would have always been her and Santana, for the rest of their lives.

Except she didn't know that anymore. In her hands, there was a purple heart and a letter and it told her that that wasn't true.

With a broken heart and an overwhelming feeling of loneliness, Brittany realized that she didn't know anything anymore.

She didn't know where to go. What to do.

And so she had stayed put. She didn't feel like dancing, so she stopped dancing.

Computers finally began to make sense to her. They became the one thing she knew.

Brittany hadn't felt, hadn't HOPED, so much since then, than in that moment when Quinn flashed a smile at her.

A smile that was deceitful. That lied.

Brittany didn't give her the satisfaction of crying, but she knew that if she got the chance, if she got close enough, she would thrust a fist in Quinn's pretty face, harder than she hit Puck's ex-Cheerio.

The thought of causing Quinn any sort of harm was dismissed immediately when the loud screeching of tires overtook her senses, so sudden and so loud it made her jump.

Coming straight at them, at a speed that shouldn't have been safe in an alley, was a red sports car. There was no time to react when it abruptly skidded, tires turning in the gravel, missing Brittany and David Fuller by just a foot, but slamming hard into Haim and Tom.

There was a sickening squelch, and then their bodies jerked into the air, popping off like rockets. Brittany watched them sail, unable to believe it was real, as they seemed to hang suspended in the air, before flopping to the ground.

Before she could understand it, a large hand grabbed hold of her collar, yanking hard and dragging her back.

"Grab her!" Brittany dimly heard Quinn say, but she couldn't process it. The standard issue Buy More Nerd Herd tie now dug into her esophagus like a hanging rope, and it made it impossible to breathe.

Her Converse flailed against the oil-slicked concrete, trying to find purchase. She clawed at the hands that held her, trying to fight against the brutal grip that suffocated her.

Her lungs began to burn. Though she could hear shouts, gunshots, she was aware of nothing but the devastating need to breathe, and her rising panic when there was no relief. Her vision began to blur. In that dizzy haze, she could barely make out Quinn's blonde hair, the pop-pop that sounded like she was in a war movie.

David shot his gun, close to her ear. It came off like a sonic boom, rattling her brain and making her eyes water.

Suddenly, she heard a sound that sounded like a wet, garbled grunt, and the grip was gone. David fell to the floor, and Brittany, with no strength to fight against the momentum crumpled hard against him.

She sucked in harsh, hacking breaths, expanding her lungs and wincing with every inhalation, throat bruised and sore. As David twitched and made gargling sounds behind, Brittany's fingers dug into the chipped bits of glass that littered the driveway. The blood mixed with the slick oil on the driveway, painting her hands and knees a gruesome mix of brown and red.

A warm hand settled suddenly on her back, rubbing hard between her shoulders, as an arm curved against her stomach, pulling her into a firm, familiar form.

"Brittany, breathe. Just breathe, okay?"

Dizzy from lack of oxygen, ears ringing from abuse, and dangerously closer to unconsciousness, Brittany couldn't question her instincts. "San?" she whispered.

The hands just held her tighter. Fingers that felt so very real skimmed against her cheek, tilting her head until her blurry vision saw the most beautiful image in the world.

Santana, with long dark hair, those smoky, unmistakable eyes, a trembling smile and a gash on her cheek, continued to fold Brittany against her, until Brittany was curled into her body, and Santana was holding her tight, protecting her against the world.

"This is heaven, isn't it?" Brittany wondered, eyes blinking up in bewildered amazement. "I've died and gone to heaven and you've turned into an angel. Or I've gone crazy. Like for real. "

She hoped like hell she had, because that would mean that the nightmare was over, and honestly, this kind of crazy wasn't so bad. Brittany had always had an inner Santana that was with her, but this Santana, the real Santana who kept touching her, holding her so tight, was so much better.

"If you've gone crazy, then so have I," Santana whispered in her Santana voice.

That dark despair, the one that had crawled inside of her and eclipsed every speck of hope Brittany carried, began to lift, and in it's place was a sudden relief and happiness that flared, blinding her to anything else.

In that, she found just enough strength to nestle into the crook of Santana's neck, press her lips against the rapid pulse she found there, and taste the salt of her skin, before her eyelids began to feel impossibly heavy, and the blackness of sleep threatened to take her over.

_No_, Brittany pleaded, struggling with herself. _I want to stay here. This is the reality I want to be in. If I'm crazy, then that's okay. _

Her body, abused and in shock, and in the habit of disobeying her since early this morning, did not do her the favor. Instead, her fingers twitched against the lapels of Santana's jacket, and she lost consciousness.

* * *

><p>Quinn and Santana had gotten into their fair share of catfights.<p>

There was the great lollipop incident in first grade, when Quinn had decided to assert her authority and demanded Santana hand over her sugary treat. Instead, Santana tackled her in the sandbox.

There was the brief hallway throwdown that occurred in high school, when Santana got a boob job and Quinn exploited that to knock her out of the Captain's spot in order to take it for herself.

There was the embarrassingly cliché 'get the hell off my man' slapfest that happened a few months later, when Santana, in a completely transparent move to get at Quinn's goat (that had completely worked), had shown a brief interest in Sam.

But up until this point, Santana had never actually tried to put a bullet inside of her.

To be fair, Quinn had never before tried to kidnap Brittany for the sake of the billion-dollar superweapon that was currently lurking in her brain, either.

It was almost surreal, Quinn admitted, as she grit her teeth and sucked in harsh breaths to stem the pain of the Fulcrum-employed doctor poking at her ribs.

"They're just a bit bruised," said the doctor, a middle-aged woman with a private practice in Beverly Hills. "But nothing's broken. The wound in your shoulder is a graze." She pulled the gloves off with a snap, and reached for another pair, eyeing Quinn over her wire-rimmed glasses. "You got lucky."

It was insulting. "I'm not an idiot," she snapped. "I wear a vest for a reason. Luck had nothing to do with it."

But it did. She knew it did. If Santana had aimed just a tiny bit higher, if Quinn had moved just a second later, Santana's bullets would have slammed into her throat, hitting major arteries and bleeding Quinn out in seconds.

Santana had meant to kill her.

Fuller was dead. Santana had executed him, blazing a bullet in his legs and then again through his cheek. Marshall and Tom had more than dozen broken bones each.

It must have been the shock and the blood loss that had Quinn honestly pissed off over it, disgruntled in a way that was almost embarrassing.

Their rivalry that had once been about boys and pom-poms had evolved into bullets and bloodshed, and now, all Quinn could think about was that once, they had called each other best friends.

The doctor tugged lightly at the rust-colored stained sleeve, making Quinn hiss as the fabric pulled from the clotted blood on her shoulder.

"Leave it," she snapped.

The doctor stared. Quinn arched a brow, daring her to contest.

"Fine," the doctor shrugged, "Die of infection. See if I care."

She turned away, dismissing her with a coldness that was standard of a Fulcrum-paid Asset, leaving Quinn to teeter off the patient bench and quietly gather her things.

Outside, Ramos waited, sprawled in the car with a haggard, annoyed expression on his face.

"We're fucked. Andrews is gonna have our asses," he announced, turning the key and starting the ignition. "And you look like shit. Couldn't you at least have cleaned yourself up in there?"

"Bite me," she twittered back, just as sweetly, wincing as her ribs creaked in protest. "We're not fucked."

"Oh, we're not?" Ramos turned the wheel and pulled off into traffic. "She knocked off Fuller, Travis, and now Marshall and Tom. She's taken the Intersect, and chances are she's already on the way to a NSA safehouse by now. Forget it, Andrews is gonna have _your_ass."

"She's not going to give Brittany to the government," Quinn said, pressing a palm against her wounded shoulder, and grimacing at the burn it produced.

"You're kidding me right? Miss La Femme Nikita—"

"Santana won't give Brittany to the NSA," Quinn repeated, firmly, readjusting her position in the leather passenger seat in an attempt to make it easier on her bruised chest. "She won't," she insisted, when Ramos glared at her in doubt. "Trust me. Santana knows exactly what will happen if she does. Brittany will be locked away in some lab, to be poked and pricked like a lab rat for the rest of her life."

For someone like Brittany, it was a fate worse than death. Quinn knew that. Like depriving a plant of sunlight, like caging a wild bird, it would wilt Brittany, and from Santana, it would be a betrayal that would completely break whatever was left of Brittany's spirit.

It was a natural consequence of a civilian being infused with something like the Intersect. Quinn understood that.

Had Santana not ambushed them in the alley, Quinn would have sentenced Brittany to that very fate.

It was an unforgivable offense, if one were ethical.

Quinn had decided a long time ago that ethics were for high school glee clubs, not real life. That philosophy would have been so much easier to maintain if half of those show choir members weren't actively involved in this now.

Quinn broke herself from her musing when she realized that Ramos had yet to respond. Instead, he was currently occupied with both driving and staring at her between stoplights, a scowl of disbelief playing on his lips.

It was unnerving. "Santana won't do that to Brittany," she said again.

"That's a fucking lot to bet on instinct, Fabray."

"You didn't grow up with them. Protecting Brittany is what Santana does. This is the girl she was going to _marry_. Would you do that to your mother? Your sister? Your wife?"

Ramos pursed his lips, absorbing that quietly.

"Santana's not going to give her up. Not again. She's going to take Brittany and run." Quinn nodded. It was a certainty. "And that means we have time."

"Time?" Ramos issued something that sounded like a laugh and a scoff, mottled together. "Time for what? To let her disappear into the bowels of the earth? She's fucking Molly Chambers, Quinn. "

The return of Santana's new moniker brought about a shudder of repulsion. "Goddamn, who chose that name? It's ridiculous."

Ramos let that one go. "All I'm saying is," he said pointedly, "the bitch knows how to disappear."

Quinn's smile was a grim one, as Ramos turned onto a street that was becoming rapidly familiar. "Aren't you glad we didn't kill Rachel, now?"

"What, you want to use her as collateral?"

The idea, however logical, was vaguely repulsive. The casual, cavalier way he said it made Quinn suddenly hate him.

Santana, McKinley's resident bitch and slut, had shot her and killed her men to save the life of the woman she loved. She was on the verge of turning her back on the country that she literally killed herself for in order to save Brittany from a lifetime as a lab bunny.

Meanwhile, Quinn had manipulated Rachel Berry into tricking Brittany into her own captivity, following the orders of a rogue terrorist cell for no other reason that she was told to.

Granted, she believed in their mission. She fully believed that a Fulcrum agent was a patriot, with only slightly different views. There were unpleasant actions involved that were necessary, and everyone made choices.

But it had been a long time since Quinn had considered the consequences of the innocents.

"No," she managed, and caught herself in the reflection of the passenger window. Her cheek was smudged with dirt. Blood was caked on her chin and forehead. "Nothing quite so dramatic. Once I show up at Rachel's door, bleeding and shot, Rachel's going to think the worst of Santana."

"And that helps us how?"

In pain and battling more emotion than she cared to admit, Quinn was not in the mood to spell out everything. "Just trust me, okay? All we need to get Brittany and Santana back is for Rachel to think the sun shines out of my ass."

Ramos pulled into the driveway that led into the apartment structure. His expression was hooded. "Fine. Go fuck the soap star into loving you. You're the one that's gonna have to answer to Andrews."

The glare she shot him was scathing. "Andrews trusts my methods."

Settling back, Ramos made no move to help her as she struggled out of the passenger seat. "I guess we'll see, won't we? You fucked up big time, Quinn, sending the Intersect to her." She slammed the door. "What do you think is gonna happen when you're done with her?" he continued pointedly, as she walked around, leaning out his open window. "What do you think Andrews is gonna say?"

Quinn walked away from him.

There was no point in answering. She knew exactly what Andrews would say. It had already been implicitly explained, in every look, every email, every command she had been given since she had been recruited.

Gaining control of the Intersect was the single most important objective for Fulcrum at the moment. Whoever controlled the Intersect, controlled the government, and that meant it was worth as many lives as it took.

_"There is no evil," _Andrews once told her. _"There is no good. There are simply end results. When it comes to history, the end result always determines the motivation. We all make choices, but this is bigger than all of us, Quinn. No matter what."_

Standing at Rachel's door, bullet-ridden and bruised, Quinn considered Santana, and the choices she made. The ones she was making even now.

When she knocked lightly on the door, when it opened and revealed Rachel Berry wearing only tiny sleep shorts and a camisole, Quinn studied the haunted expression, the way it flashed with relief and then furious concern as those dark eyes took in every speck of blood, the pain etched in Quinn's face. Soft hands caught hold of hers, pulling her inside the apartment with a non-stop babble that she hadn't grown out of.

Quinn's insides quivered with an emotion she didn't want to feel. They weren't Brittany and Santana, and Quinn understood the choices she had made.

Unlike Santana, she would actually abide by them, no matter what the consequences.


	5. Chapter 4

**TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress  
>AUTHOR: Misty Flores<strong>

**PART FOUR**

_When it's good, then it's good, it's so good 'til it goes bad  
>'Til you're trying to find the you that you once had<br>I have heard myself cry 'never again'  
>Broken down in agony, just tryin' find a friend<em>  
>-'Sober', P!nk<p>

* * *

><p>Her day, the time limit she had been given by Major Mathews, was nearly over. Santana knew that soon, the entire power of the US Army would be coming, and though she could hold up against Quinn Fabray and her team of Fulcrum agents, she was no match for the agents that knew her, trained her.<p>

Santana, in the midst of reverent worship, could not focus on that. Instead, Santana gave in to her starvation. She was settled heavily against the bed, afraid to breathe, afraid to touch, as Brittany slept away her adrenaline produced exhaustion.

A blonde bang fell forward, brushing against the bridge of Brittany's nose, tickling her into scrunching it.

The action was at once so familiar, and so endearing, Santana found herself choked with emotion, shaken as she lifted a careful hand and softly smoothed back the offending lock, once again revealing the dark blonde lashes.

She remembered once, when she was young and afraid, and overtaken with Breadstix-inspired aspirations, she had told Brittany that she wasn't in love with her. She had said it coldly, a verbal lash out for Brittany daring to once again think she owned her.

Santana had gone through a phase of resentment, then. She wanted to be a free bitch, and she wanted Brittany, and she wanted her Breadstix, and in that moment, Brittany was still the bossy little kid who had taken a scrawny Santana's arm and wrote her name on it with a big black marker, like she was one of Brittany's toys.

Later, when Brittany had taken the information to heart and attempted, in her own way, to move on with Artie, Santana had panicked. Brittany, who never wanted serious relationships because she was too busy sleeping with everyone (and Santana) to care, suddenly had a boyfriend.

Santana ended that relationship with a calculated dig at Artie, and never once, in that debacle, did she have to admit that Brittany was her safe place, and she had no idea how to be without her.

It wasn't until much later, when being popular didn't matter as much as what her future might bring, that Santana admitted to Brittany that all she really wanted, since she was a kid, was to be Brittany's boyfriend.

Her needs had grown; changed as she matured. Santana would never be Brittany's boyfriend, but what she had become was so much better. She was Brittany's best friend, lover, girlfriend, and later, the woman she would marry.

While Brittany was her strength, Santana was Brittany's protector, and it was a life-long calling.

She had never imagined it would take them both to this moment, with an Intersect in Brittany's head that had been meant for First Lieutenant Molly Chambers, and the chasm of a faked death lying between them.

In this calm before the storm, Santana reveled in her weakness, taking in a ragged, overwhelmed breath and turning her palm over to brush her knuckles against the soft down of Brittany's cheek.

When Brittany shifted against the attention, Santana froze, suddenly afraid to even breathe. A low moan vibrated out of Brittany's throat.

"I'm still dreaming," she whispered, voice rough and raspy, eyes shut. "Aren't I?" The carefree tone, with its hope and sweetness, was at once heart-wrenching and sobering.

Pressing her lips together, Santana considered for a brief, crazy moment, saying yes. "No, Brittany," she admitted. "You're not dreaming. You're not crazy, either. And you're not dead. This is real life."

Her words fell into a thick silence, pregnant with intensity and the harsh punishment of waiting as they settled over Brittany, slowly working into comprehension.

Tears stung suddenly at Santana's eyes, when Brittany's eyes opened and her former best friend, her current everything, got her first good look at her.

Without the panic and distraction of the chaos at the loading dock, Santana knew what would happen the moment she did, and Brittany's Intersect-infected head would see her again.

When she saw it happen, it was like a dagger thrust into her gut. The lids that fluttered, the gasp of air that Brittany inhaled, and the way Brittany stared at her now, with all the knowledge that the government had to offer, was confirmation that this was real.

Brittany jerked up in the bed, eyeing her like she was seeing a terrifying stranger.

Unable to help herself, Santana reached for Brittany, grabbing hold of her fingers and tangling tightly. "I'm sorry, Britt," she pleaded thickly, begging for the unforgivable. "I'm so sorry."

Brittany's chest rose and fell with harsh pants, as her gaze fell dumbly to Santana's hand clenching her own, obviously trying hard to reconcile the information in her head with what she had been given, forced to live through.

"But you're dead," she whispered. "We had a funeral."

"I'm sorry."

"I have your purple heart," Brittany continued, colored eyes darting up to her face. "The president sent me a letter."

"I'm sorry," she said again, helpless. Santana had never apologized more in her life, and it was ridiculous that it was the only thing she could say now, when those two words in reality, could mean nothing in this situation.

Maybe Brittany saw it. Saw the misery, the complete self-loathing, the utter resignation to her actions in her expression, because the connection finally sunk in.

Brittany jerked her hand away. As quickly as clarity had come, so did the grief. The anger. The devastation.

"You killed yourself," Brittany choked out, accusing her with flashing dark eyes and an angry mouth. "You _killed yourself_. You're not even Santana anymore. You're some person named Molly Chambers."

Santana's chest tightened, a spasm of pain that literally left her breathless. She nodded thickly. "Britt-"

"You said you wanted to marry me."

"I did," she promised, aching with the futility of it. "I do." She tried to reach for Brittany again, but Brittany scooted out of her way, nearly tumbling off the other side of the bed in her haste to get away from her.

Cowed, Santana took her hand back, wrung her fingers together in her lap. "Brittany," she tried again. "You have to know-"

"Why'd you come back?"

The question was asked flatly and with a straight, angry face.

To Santana, it was one she didn't know how to answer. "What?"

"You left." Brittany climbed off the bed, stood and looked like a shadow of herself, in a wrinkled, dirty white shirt, and a cheap tie, so full of anger and grief. "You're dead. You don't exist anymore. So why did you come back? Because it wasn't for me."

Santana could only shake her head wildly. "Brittany-"

"If it was, you would have come back a long time ago," Brittany said, shoes squeaking on the hard wood floor of the apartment, rounding the bed like an angry cat. "You wouldn't have spent four years letting me think that you were gone-"

"I couldn't come back."

"Because you're dead, right?" Brittany was now only a foot away from her, staring at her with wide, angry eyes.

Even with the tears stinging, even with the reflexive need to grab hold of Brittany and demand she forgive her, Santana knew they were speaking in circles.

She flexed her hands, tried hard to control her breathing, and then began as carefully, as calmly as she could, "Brittany, what you have in your head is called the Intersect. It's a government program-"

She should have seen Brittany's fist coming. She didn't. It cracked against her jaw, snapping her head back and causing a flash of pain that was blinding.

"Shut up!"

Eyes watering from the pain, Santana acted impulsively, launching to her feet and grabbing hold of Brittany's hands, clasping them hard in front of her.

The action was enough to send Brittany flailing. "Don't touch me!"

She was still taller, still stronger, and before Santana had entered the army every single pseudo-wrestling match between them had ended up with Santana on the floor and Brittany straddling her.

They weren't kids anymore, and like Brittany said, Santana was dead.

Molly Chambers absorbed the wild blows and controlled them, twisting Brittany's wrists and hooking her leg behind Brittany's calf, shoving with her hip and throwing Brittany off balance.

Brittany fell heavily, back slapping against the wood, knocking the wind out of her.

Santana wasted no time pinning her down, hands slapping down against Brittany's, legs tangled against her own.

"Brittany, I was compromised," she snapped.

"Get off of me."

When Brittany bucked, Santana rode her, hips angling and keeping Brittany down.

"They compromised me," she continued, louder the harder Brittany struggled, fighting for dominance and the will to break through Brittany's haze of fury. "They leaked my identity! I wanted to come home. I wanted to marry you. But I was on an assignment and it got screwed up. They found out who I was and they're the type of people who come after you, and they don't just destroy you, but they destroy every one you love. They would have found out about you and they would have come after you. Stop!" she growled, digging her nails into Brittany's wrists. "I didn't have a choice! I didn't want to but they would have killed you."

Emotionally and physically spent, Brittany stopped struggling, flopping back against the floor and breathing hard, heavy pants. She was sweaty underneath Santana, and deliberately obtuse, not wanting to process the information, not wanting to believe it.

In the quiet that followed, Santana's awareness grew. The press of her groin against Brittany's, the way their hands had tangled furiously, clutching to each other in a desperate bid for control.

Brittany's chest heaved up and down, and in her eyes was the vibrant, alive intensity that had captivated Santana when she was a child and held her spellbound ever since.

Santana loved her. So desperately. So faithfully. So fruitlessly.

"And that's why you're back, right?" Brittany asked, breathless and weakened from the struggle. "To protect me?" The words made Santana wince. "Or because I have this thing in my head and you want it for yourself? Like Quinn?"

To even think Brittany would believe her capable of it was devastating. "No," she whispered, broken. "Brittany, I didn't want this for you. I didn't ever want this."

Maybe Brittany finally heard her. Maybe somewhere in Brittany's fog of hurt, she saw her again, because Brittany's head tilted, and she finally began to look, deep into Santana's eyes.

Their hands, tangled together, twitched as Brittany flexed her fingers. Santana's heart leapt with fragile hope.

"If I didn't have this in my head," Brittany began, slowly and carefully. "Would you have ever come back?"

It was a question Santana never wanted to answer, and Brittany saw it in her face. Once again, the expression hardened, and when Brittany bucked, it was with a power that Santana wasn't prepared for.

She had to scramble to regain control, hooking legs underneath Brittany's thighs and using her torso for leverage, crossing Brittany's arms and pinning them between their chests.

Red-faced, Brittany didn't stop struggling. "Leave me alone!"

"Brittany, you have to stop-"

"LEAVE ME ALONE." The animalistic scream bled the rest of Brittany's strength and fury from her body. Tears glistened, and suddenly, Brittany released a sob that was pure emotion.

"I'm sorry," Santana pleaded. "I'm sorry."

Brittany began to cry, fruitlessly pushing at her hands and then suddenly giving up, head falling against the wood and the tears drifting down her cheeks, a messy torrent that expelled emotion like bile.

"I'm sorry," she said, again and again. "I'm so sorry."

She let go of Brittany's trapped hands, smoothing caresses up Brittany's delicate neck to cradle her wet cheeks. Unable to help herself, Santana fell against her, pressing her mouth against Brittany's jaw, her temple, her mussed hair.

As Brittany's tears fell, her wrath bleeding out with them, she didn't push Santana away. Santana instead felt arms weave around her, clutching her so tightly she felt enveloped.

Blindly, Brittany nudged with her head, until her searching lips brushed against Santana's.

Without control, Santana whimpered, mouth opening as she tasted salt and Brittany's tongue. A low, agonized moan broke between them; Santana didn't know who it came from. She didn't care.

All she cared about was kissing Brittany back.

* * *

><p>Rachel had taken several first aid courses, the first of many being when she had been given the position of floor safety warden in her first job as she worked her way through UCLA.<p>

It had been a position she had taken seriously, and though the other members of the safety team obviously rolled their eyes behind her back and glared daggers at her when she asked the emergency preparedness instructors question after question, Rachel knew that it was important.

In her years as Brittany's roommate, Rachel had cleaned up too many skinned knees and elbow scrapes to count. Brittany had her moments of clumsiness, stemmed from the thoughtless way Brittany approached life, with her attention in twenty places at once.

To think that she had gone from patching up one ex-Cheerio to another was almost surreal, in a bittersweet, haunting sort of way.

Treating Brittany's superficial wounds felt almost maternal. Rachel had even gone so far as to kiss Brittany's paper cut once, patting her with a sweet smile to make it feel better. It had come from one friend to another, a genuine sisterly affection for a high school buddy who had become a roommate.

Cleaning up Quinn's wounds felt so very different.

Quinn's shirt had been discarded, peeled away by Rachel's own trembling hands. Settled against Rachel's own couch, legs sprawled open to allow Rachel to kneel between them, her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip to endure the pain. Quinn's breasts, supported by a sheer black bra that left almost nothing to the imagination, rose up and down with the rise and fall of Quinn's heavy pants.

The left bra strap had been peeled away from Quinn's bruised and bloodied shoulder, leaving one soft bauble very nearly bare.

Brittany had been taken. Quinn had been shot. Behind both of these horrific actions was Santana, proof that she really had become the monster that Quinn claimed her to be.

The circumstances were extreme, and although the knot in Rachel's stomach remained coiled so tight she felt vaguely nauseous, making her literally sick with worry, Rachel couldn't help but shudder at the intimately erotic sight before her.

It was mortifying. The discoloration that marred Quinn's toned, flat stomach was slowly going purple. Quinn had placed her trust in Rachel's care, in the process entrusting herself in a way Rachel would have never imagined. In return, she found herself aching in uncontrolled arousal, betrayed by her own body's misinterpretations of the way she was settled between Quinn's open legs, the shift of Quinn's jeans brushing against her waist, the way Quinn's hips arched, unintentionally drawing Rachel closer and deeper against her groin.

Rachel knew that with extreme circumstances came extreme emotion. It was what any classic soap storyline was all about, and after three years as Cybil on _Guiding Hope_, she liked to consider herself an expert.

Based on what had occurred between them in the brief time they had reconnected, it would make complete sense that she would feel an immense sort of hero worship for Quinn. She was the stereotype of the dashing hero, distractingly beautiful, strong and stoic, with eyes that burned with depth and the charisma and presence that had intimidated Rachel so much when they were kids.

The rush of fear and adrenaline brought with it heightened senses, a racing heartbeat that pumped blood into every organ, dizzying her with oversensitive stimulation as she dealt with the reality of placing hands all over the soft skin of a half-naked, gorgeous woman, who arched beneath her and moaned sounds that Rachel only ever heard during sex.

It excited her, made her feverish and too aware of her own body, nipples hardening at every sound Quinn made, embarrassingly obvious as they strained against her threadbare tanktop, legs shifting restlessly as the aroused ache between them throbbed for attention.

Humiliating, and absolutely uncalled for. Rachel was not a teenage boy, and so she pressed her lips together in a valiant smile and ignored the erotic impulses, even when she leaned forward and Quinn's cleavage, black lace and full breasts, brushed against her teasingly, causing the muscles in her stomach to jolt.

"God-dammit-" Quinn's hiss spat against her ear, teasing hot breath and a jerk of pain. Rachel jolted up immediately, wincing in apology.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, but the peroxide-soaked gauze against Quinn's shoulder stayed put, wiping at crusted blood and torn flesh. "We have to clean it or it'll get infected."

"Oh, did you figure that out all by yourself?" she heard, a nasty retort.

She faltered, reminded vividly of the old Cheerios head cheerleader, who sneered at Rachel with perfectly pouted lips and a gleam in her eye.

Fingers grabbed her bicep suddenly, squeezing. "I'm sorry," Quinn whispered, shaking her head softly. "Old habits die hard sometimes." With a noisy inhalation, Quinn shuddered and fell forward, forehead slipping against Rachel's shoulder, breathing her in for support.

The instinctive hurt faded in the face of Quinn's obvious need. Rachel's eyes once again went to the ragged flesh of the open wound inflicted on Quinn by Santana. "You're going to need stitches."

"Just bandage it. I'll get it done later."

"Okay." Tiny puffs of breath skidded by her ear. Breathless, Rachel focused on lifting off the stained gauze.

Quinn's fingers dug into her arm, nails creasing half moons into the muscle, restricting her movement.

"Quinn."

Colored eyes glanced up. Rachel arched a brow pointedly.

"Oh." The flush that colored Quinn's cheeks as she let go was amusing in a way that seemed almost sacred to Rachel. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Her smile was friendly, as comforting as she could manage. It gave her back her confidence, tamped back the horny hormones that sought to keep reminding her of Quinn's body, the flash of rosy nipples pressing hard against the lace of the lingerie, the pants of breath that raised goosebumps on Rachel's sensitive skin.

Her purpose renewed, Rachel quietly worked, pressing a fresh gauze against the cleaned wound, careful as she pulled and snapped off strips of medical tape.

Underneath her, Quinn grew quiet; still. A curious glance revealed a woman with an expression that seemed charged, but unreadable. Their eyes locked, and a small, tender smile formed on the full lips.

"You're good at this."

She bowed her head humbly. "Four years of living with Brittany, you learn to expect a few accidents."

With the mention of Brittany, came the devastating reminder of why Quinn was here, why Brittany was not. It struck her like a spike to the heart, causing a flare of pain that was impossible to squelch.

The soft press of a palm against her cheek surprised her. Rachel looked up, and realized she had begun to tremble, stricken with her loss.

Quinn's thumb grazed over the angle of her cheekbone. "I'm sorry, Rachel," she whispered thickly, eyes meeting hers in intense apology. "I tried."

"It's not your fault," Rachel replied, mechanic and polite, but sincere. "You did all you could."

The hand fell from her cheek, leaving behind it the burn of Quinn's touch. "It wasn't good enough." Dark eyes grew stormy with guilt, distant with the memory. "This is really my fault, isn't it? I started this whole mess, when I sent you that email-"

"Stop-" It was the look of pure misery, pure conflict, that battled on Quinn's face so nakedly that broke her of her own grief, caused an instinctual rise from her haunches to press her fingers against Quinn's chin, forcing blue eyes to meet her own. "You can't blame yourself."

Quinn's body sank with disbelief. "You don't know what you're talking about. If you knew half of it-"

"I know everything I need to know-"

"I sent you the file-"

"You did it because you trusted me," she said firmly, desperately.

It was meant to be reassuring, remind Quinn of her intentions, of the fact that not everything in life could be controlled. Rachel had learned that the hard way.

But instead of a relieved smile, Quinn only stared at her mutely. A flash of emotion spread over her face, gone so quickly Rachel could not name it, but it spoke of misery and conflict.

"You had no way of knowing Brittany would have seen it first." Soft and gentle, Rachel's voice came off husky with emotion. The smile she valiantly managed trembled, but her thumbs carefully smoothed at the lines of Quinn's frown, a testament to her sincerity. "You can't control everything, Quinn. That's not how life works."

And maybe, just maybe, Quinn heard her, because although she did not respond, although she did not speak, her eyes did not look away. Instead she stared at Rachel with a scrutiny that felt like she was studying every pore, every feature, memorizing Rachel like a map.

Breathless, suddenly self conscious, Rachel bit in a sigh. The heat of her body had again begun to respond, insistent in it's reminder of Rachel's own desire.

The shudder that threatened to come was enough to cause Rachel to shift, break away.

The hand that caught hers, catching hold of the dropping digits and keeping Rachel in place, startled her in it's quickness. A low whine of pain escaped Quinn like a meow, but she didn't relax her grip. Fingers tangled in hers, until Quinn had placed Rachel's warm hand just above her own bare breast, over her heart.

Rachel discovered she could feel it beating, hard and fast, against her.

"You have to promise me," Quinn whispered, voice thick with emotion. "If Brittany calls you to tell you where she is, you'll tell me. I can help her. I can save her. Rachel." The fingers squeezed, pressed harder against Quinn's body, as Quinn's eyes held hers, pleading for Brittany. "You can trust me."

In her younger days, Rachel fell into infatuation too easily. It was a weakness she had come to learn about herself, and one she had consciously tried to rectify. She considered herself wiser, these days, focused on her career, and thinking herself the lucky one, because although there was always loneliness, she had seen Brittany's devastation, her heartbreak at the loss of Santana.

But Rachel knew, she always knew, that her heart was capable of overruling her logic. It terrified her, because if that was the case, if her emotion took hold and Rachel let it, she would grow truly helpless.

And here was Quinn, proud and stoic and so obviously lonely, caught up in her mission and rediscovery, caught in a mission that was beyond her, over her head, conflicted between her duty and her own emotion. Beautiful and aware of it, but vulnerable and open in a way that made Rachel want desperately to reassure her that she was not a monster. She was not alone. She was not weak.

She captured Rachel's heart and made it beat in a way that felt truly unique, unstoppable.

It frightened her, and yet to know it, to name it, felt like such a relief, Rachel could only offer a shaky smile and a strained voice. "I know," she managed. "I know I can. I promise, Quinn."

In the wake of her epiphany, Rachel felt silly, unsure. She was both spellbound and slightly afraid of it, and more than ever, she was aware of their state of undress, of her hand curved over Quinn's skin, and Quinn's toned, beautiful body beneath it.

Shaken, unsure, Rachel disentangled herself, tore her eyes away from Quinn and her temptation.

"Can I ask you something?" Quinn asked, a moment later, as Rachel quietly began to place the contents of her first aid kit back in the box she stored them.

"Of course," Rachel said. She felt cold, exposed in her skimpy clothes, too aware of the way Quinn looked at her.

"Don't get offended or anything, but..." Rachel glanced up. In the middle of pulling her strap back over her shoulders, Quinn did not look at her. Rachel followed the movement, a knot in her throat. "Are you attracted to women?"

Rachel gasped, a startled exhalation that caught in her throat when Quinn's head came up and her eyes pinned hers.

"It's okay if you are." Quinn's knowing smile was mortifying. "I just... I caught you looking a couple times."

_Oh God._The burn in Rachel's face made it impossible to negate. She tore her eyes away, hands suddenly shaking as she refocused on her supplies.

"Rachel."

"My character's brief romantic lesbian storyline was very enlightening."

Quinn absorbed that. "Okay."

Shaken, Rachel snapped the kit closed, and nearly took her own finger off in her nervous enthusiasm.

"There's something to be said for the female form. There's a certain eroticism when you're with a woman that can be quite different than with a man. More intimate, if you're open."

"Rachel." A warm palm pressed on her shoulder, stopping her spastic movements.

Mortified, Rachel kept her head down.  
>"It's okay." She sounded almost amused at Rachel's discomfort, and it caused a jolt of anger in Rachel that gave her the courage to face Quinn Fabray, out and proud and without worry of judgment.<p>

"I know it's okay," she snapped.

But on Quinn's face there was only a smile, quiet and knowing. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't know what you meant."

The implication, both in what was said and what was not, was so astounding, Rachel found herself knocked breathless.

"Really?" she squeaked dumbly, and then flushed, unable to ignore the way Quinn tried to laugh, the action cut short by a wince and a press of her hand against her bruised ribs. "Quinn-"

"I'm okay," Quinn said, but didn't move away when Rachel settled beside her, thigh pressing against hers as Rachel reached for the bruise. "Girls are hot."

The sentence was said flippantly, almost in jest. It might have been taken as such if Rachel's palm wasn't currently pressing flat against Quinn's stomach, warm and feeling the twitch of muscles underneath.

Quinn's smile faded. A finger brushed encouragingly against Rachel's.

The arousal that jolted within Rachel shocked her, causing an impulse that jerked her own hand back as if it had been burnt.

In that one movement, Quinn had made her intentions clear.

She wanted her. Quinn Fabray wanted to seduce Rachel Berry.

Feverish, dizzy with the implication, Rachel felt both thrilled and suddenly thrown. Quinn's cocky assurance, her deliberate movements, it spoke of such certainty, a calculated, by the books seduction.

Quinn had done this before, and Rachel wasn't sure she wanted to be just another conquest. After all this time, maybe it would mean more to just be a friend.

She placed her hands in her lap, purposely did not meet Quinn's expression.

"Thank you, Quinn."

Beside her, Quinn shifted. Her thigh pressed closer, bare arm rubbing against Rachel's. "For what?"

"For what you're doing for Brittany," she whispered, eyes on her fingers, tangling them restlessly together. "I can't say I've ever been betrayed by someone to the extent of what Santana has done to Brittany, but I remember what it felt like when Jesse left me for Vocal Adrenaline." Quinn's movement against her, distracting and full of purpose, stopped. Her smug smile faltered. "I thought he loved me, but he used me. I was gutted. I thought I would never ... trust anyone ever again." The memory was a harsh one. Since then, she had run into Jesse St. James, in her years at UCLA. There, he fought alongside of her for the school leads and it was clear that he struggled for his star just as she did. He had asked for forgiveness, for a second chance.

Rachel had been able to give one, not the other. There was no trust, and truthfully, Rachel's heart had hardened considerably against him.

"I can't imagine what it would feel like to be used at that level," she whispered. "I don't know if Brittany can ever get over it."

"Rachel." Quinn sounded odd, strained. "I know I wasn't always the nicest person to you know in high school-"

Rachel shook her head, mouth quirking in a phantom smile. "Stop. I wasn't a saint either."

"I'm still sorry."

That strain, that guilt, was still there. Rachel's head lifted. Quinn looked at her. Just looked. That seductive smirk, the knowing smug smile, it had disappeared, and in its place was an expression with no expectation, and genuine remorse.

It affected Rachel profoundly.

Without hesitation or insecurity, she turned into Quinn, fingers creasing against Quinn's slender neck and lips pressing firmly against Quinn's mouth.

She shocked her. It was obvious in how Quinn stiffened, absorbed the kiss.

Intoxicated, Rachel allowed it, until Quinn's mouth opened against hers with a gasp, body sinking into the couch.

She kissed her intimately, tasting Quinn's tongue as she scraped fingers against Quinn's neck and pushed in closer. Breathless pants inhaled and exhaled through her nose as Quinn pushed back, moaning into her mouth and causing within her such a desperate need for more she couldn't stop herself from lifting up, throwing a leg over Quinn's lap and sitting astride her.

Fingers clamped hard against her waist, Quinn's body arching against her. The kiss broke with a rough moan.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asked, remembering suddenly Quinn's ribs, the wounded shoulder.

"Fine," Quinn mumbled, head shaking fervently as her head tilted forward, seeking eagerly to reestablish contact with her mouth.

Rachel was overtaken by her senses: the warmth of Quinn underneath her, the feel of Quinn's lips sliding hotly against hers, the aching awareness of her own groin, grinding down hard in Quinn's lap, desperately seeking friction through the flimsiness of her shorts and the rough zipper of Quinn's denim.

Quinn's hips bucked, roughly dragging fabric against her. Rachel cried out, buried the moan into Quinn's mouth, tangling against her tongue.

"Rachel," Quinn mumbled, the sound of her name blurred against her mouth, hands spread hotly underneath Rachel's tank, riding it up to press against Rachel's stomach. "Rachel-"

Alive, desperately aroused and consumed only with need, Rachel didn't want to listen. Her body splayed against Quinn's, sinking them both into the couch, hips shifting into Quinn. Her palm slid deliberately between them, dragging fingers over prickled skin, until she covered the breast she had been so desperately distracted by, thumbing the hard nipple through the lace.

Quinn broke away with a hard hiss, forehead tilted against Rachel's, eyes scrunched together in aroused frustration.

"Rachel," she growled, even as she arched into Rachel's touch, pressed herself into Rachel's fingers. "You don't have to do this-"

"I know I don't have to," Rachel responded thickly. She rocked astride Quinn, frantic and seeking rhythm, as her head dipped and she found Quinn's earlobe, tonguing it, breathing in the musk and sweat. "I want to," she confessed, hearing Quinn's whimper, the erotic helpless groan that came out of her that sparked Rachel and made her wetter. "I want you."

Warm hands against her back, underneath her shirt, in the midst of kneading into the skin, exploring, stilled suddenly. "I want you, too," Quinn confessed, and there was such quiet wonder in her tone, Rachel found herself pausing as well, pulling back to stare down.

The look on Quinn's face was one of absolute astonishment. When Rachel shifted, Quinn's nails dragged against her, keeping their lower bodies connected and Rachel in place. "You don't have to sound so surprised about it," Rachel pointed out, feeling almost petulant at the thought.

Quinn's eyes widened, her head shook. "No, Rachel, it's just-"

The insecurity that threatened to rise up within Rachel was deliberately controlled when Rachel bent down and swept her tongue into Quinn's mouth, burying the words, and distracting Quinn just enough to allow Rachel to sneak her hands between Quinn and the couch, discovering the clasp of the black bra.

Breaking the maddening kiss, Rachel pulled back when Quinn arched against her, moaning at the loss of contact.

She heard the whine of frustration, saw the glaze of lust in Quinn's eyes, and found herself smiling. "In case you haven't noticed," she whispered, brushing another kiss against Quinn's swollen lips. "I'm trying to seduce you. Don't kill the mood."

She unsnapped the clasp. Quinn's breasts, free of the support, sank against her own. Dragging the straps carefully over Quinn's shoulder, Rachel gently cupped them, feeling the fullness, thumbing across the areola, watching Quinn's eyes flutter from the contact.

"You're seducing me?" Quinn asked breathlessly, disbelieving laughter escaping as she opened her eyes.

Rachel smiled. "It's not obvious?" Settling back, she carefully reached for the ends of her own shirt, and pulled it over her head.

The action struck Quinn dumb. The other woman could only stare, eyes fixed on Rachel's small breasts, hands sliding around Rachel's waist and journeying upward.

"You're gorgeous," she said, again with that note of surprise, like Quinn couldn't really believe it was happening, like she couldn't believe how much she wanted it to. "Rachel, I don't want to hurt you-"

"Shhhh." Rachel bent forward, until their hands were trapped between them, until their nipples brushed against each other, and they both trembled with the sensation. "You won't. Let me take care of you."

She pushed up, rising to her knees, lifting her soaked shorts from Quinn's jeans, until her nipple bumped against Quinn's chin and settled against her mouth.

Quinn sighed raggedly, and closed her lips around it, sucking on Rachel's breast with a lustful enthusiasm that was intoxicating to witness. Rachel watched, captivated, until the sensation of Quinn's tongue sliding against her became too overwhelming. She closed her eyes, pressed a kiss to the top of Quinn's head.

Quinn slid arms around her waist, held her so tightly with trembling arms and a bruising grip.

Rachel let her.

* * *

><p>In Santana's kiss was a devastating power that Brittany once thought could take over the world.<p>

In Santana's touch was a burn that was so intense it could bring a man to his knees.

In her stare was a magic that could suspend time and make slaves of kings.

In Santana's arms was a security that made Brittany want to weep, because although she still sparked with grief, her mind swam with accusations and hurt and fear, her heart had betrayed her along with her body, and they pulled towards Santana with a neediness that had resulted in this:

Santana's mouth sunken against hers, engaged in a deep, soul-sucking embrace. Santana's naked body, heavy and familiar, writhing and moving. Her own fingers, digging deep into dark glossy locks, tangling into curls and scraping into Santana's scalp. Her legs, wrapped around Santana's, opening herself to her lover, and allowing those long fingers to sink inside her.

She felt the hard wood floor against her back. Felt the burning, sensational ache of Santana's invasion, heard the squish of the wetness and as she entered her and pulled back, fucking her hard, trembling from the exertion.

The tension, four years of it, coiled deep inside of her, building with each thrust, with the feel of Santana's swollen, bitten lips sucking on hers, the sensation of their sweat soaked bodies rubbing against each other.

Brittany had never stopped having sex. But her body knew the difference, had always known the difference, between a heavy petting session with a random stranger, and the true burst of emotion that only erupted during intimacy with Santana.

It was something Brittany never thought she would feel again, and the intensity of it made her want to weep, claw at Santana's back and grab hold of her, until Santana had no choice but to drop flat against her.

"More," she begged, frantic as she nipped at Santana's ear, sucked on the salty, sweaty neck. She wanted to be filled, needed to be overwhelmed, needed so much more. "I need- Fuck-"

Santana filled her, thicker now, more fingers, more everything, and the burn was exactly what she wanted. She thrust her hips wildly, taking her in deeper, felt the tears prickle in her eyes and then felt Santana's mouth against them, licking them away.

"I love you," she heard, a hoarse, rusty voice, stained with lust and love and everything Santana used to be.

Brittany's eyes opened. Santana caught her mouth, thrust her tongue in time with her fingers, and Brittany whined softly, feeling her body shudder, the tension become something closer to torture.

"I love you," she heard, again, blazed into her brain, scorching her soul. "I love you, Brittany."

"FUCK," she snapped, because it was overwhelming, too much. Santana's fingers, Santana's mouth, Santana's body, and Santana's love, lost and found and fuck- "Fuck-Fuck-"

"Brittany. Brittany. Brittany, look at me." She did, eyes opening as she stared into Santana's face, saw a gash on Santana's cheek and the tears that sparkled in her eyes, felt the fingers that curled inside of her, and the friction against her clit. "It's me," Santana whispered, on top of her, inside of her, overtaking every barrier, every sensation. "It's me."

It was Santana, here with her, fucking her, making love to her in a fast, frenzied, frantic way, possessing her on the floor, and it filled every part of her, obliterated every piece of darkness that had weighed her down before, her partner in this intricate dance, matching her move for move, to the music only they could hear.

With tear-streaked eyes, Brittany looked at her, recognized her lover. "Santana," she whispered, a broken greeting, cupping her face and offering a shaken greeting.

The burst of happiness, the sudden loving, relieved smile that was so familiar and signified what home was, was followed immediately by a surge, fingers working deep inside of her and curving to scrape against the part of Brittany that would shatter her.

It ripped a sobbing cry from her throat, as the long-dormant coil that had tensed inside her released, sending her tumbling over the edge into her climax, with only Santana to hold on to.

She emerged a trembling, boneless entity, ever aware of Santana's fingers curled inside of her, body collapsed on top of her, heavy and sweaty.

She felt her mouth skimming, pressing kisses against her shoulder, her cheek, her throat, her mouth.

It's then she realized that Santana was crying. Santana, who always cried, no matter how stoic or bad ass she pretended to be.

It's was another reminder that Santana wasn't dead, but instead alive and here, inside of her, making love to her, crying into her arms with emotion that whispered to Brittany that despite her own angry protestations, Santana really, truly loved her.

Instinct and affection moved her, and Brittany soothed where in her passion, she had clawed before, flat palms against the welts she raised on Santana's back, rubbing circles against the other woman's skin, feeling the shuddering of a silent weeping that mimicked her grief and sudden relief.

When Santana finally lifted her head, Brittany's neck was wet with tears, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the feeling that eclipsed everything else, of finally feeling whole, of greeting a lover who had been gone for far too long, of inviting in a best friend who, no matter the circumstances or the reasons, she still loved beyond reason.

Brittany lifted her head and pressed a gentle kiss against Santana. "Can we get on the bed?" she asked softly, wincing when she rolled her shoulders and felt the stiffness. "This was okay before but-"

"Oh, God, Britt-" Santana sounded both exasperated and ashamed, scrambling up and breaking contact, making Brittany wince with the sudden absence. "Come on."

She grabbed hold of Brittany's hand. Brittany felt the wetness that coated Santana's fingers.

She didn't mind it.

As she slid into cool sheets, felt the nakedness of Santana behind her, the reality of the situation felt far away, hard to face or even believe it was actually happening.

"I'm still mad at you," she offered lamely, even as she sunk herself further into Santana's embrace. "But don't leave me again. If you leave me, I won't forgive you."

"I won't leave you," she heard immediately. Eyes fluttered closed, and Brittany felt dizzy with relief. She turned her head, reaching back to accept the soft kiss from Santana, cementing her declaration. "I promise."

"What's going to happen?" she found herself asking as she settled again, Santana's mouth pressing against her shoulder, breathing her in.

"Well, I'm not going to let Quinn find you, obviously," Santana muttered, soft and deliberate, as if she were thinking out loud. "And if the NSA discovers that you have the Intersect in your head..."

She didn't finish that sentence. Santana's hands reached around, found hers and tangled tight, spooning her. Brittany's eyes closed, trembled from the sensation.

"I can get us out of the country tonight." Santana's mouth skimmed her earlobe. "I've already talked to a guy about passports—I've got some money offshore-"

Brittany's eyes opened. "Wait, what? What do you mean?"

Santana paused, looking almost startled. "Brittany, we can't stay here," she said, and it caused a shudder of irritation, the way Santana talked to her like she didn't get it. "Fulcrum will never stop looking for you. And if the NSA finds you, it won't be any better. We have to run."

"Just leave. Just like that? Leave everything behind?"

To even consider it was a terrifying thought. Brittany wasn't deluded enough to think she had an amazing life, but what she had forged in her years without Santana was hers. Her job at the Buy More, her life with Rachel, her holidays with her parents and the moments that had made her laugh and smile—Xbox with Bob, softball with Dani, the lesbian down in storage...

"Brittany, we have to."

She swallowed hard. It was too easy to give into the anger, to look at Santana and remember. "I'm not like you," she snapped. "I can't just up and leave everyone just because I feel like it."

She regretted it as soon as she said it, because Santana looked like she had been slapped, hit hard right across her face, sucker punched in a way that winded and wounded her.

Still, in her panic, Brittany could not apologize. Not when the hurt blazed so badly.

"It wasn't like that," Santana whispered, like she had lost her breath. "You think that was easy for me? It fucking killed me, Britt." She was getting angry now. Her dark eyes flashed and the softness that had overcome her in the aftermath of their fierce coupling faded. Painfully obvious now were the welts, scratches and bruises that littered Santana's body like a road map of her life without Brittany.

It told a story of a person who hadn't celebrated life, but worked solely for the purpose of saving others. Being a hero.

Just like Brittany wanted her to.

Chest tight with emotion, Brittany closed her eyes, settling back against the pillows.

Behind her, Santana stayed quiet. Brittany could feel the dark gaze on her.

"I need to call Rachel," she finally whispered. "I know she'll be worried."

"No," Santana snapped immediately.

"She should at least know-"

"Quinn's got her hooks into her." Santana sat up, rubbed at her face hard. "I know you love her, and she's like your bff now or whatever, but you can't trust her now. Not with Quinn behind her, pulling her strings, like a god-damn puppet master."

"You don't know that!" Brittany snapped. For Santana to even think she did was insulting. "You don't know her. Not anymore."

But Santana was unmoved. "And you don't know Quinn," she said, her smile a grimace, tired and resigned. When Brittany didn't respond, Santana shifted in her direction. "Brittany," she began, the sheets sliding away from her naked torso as she pulled her legs between them and regarded her seriously, "Do you love me? Do you trust me?"

She asked those questions in a point blank, matter-of-fact tone. There was no wiggle room, and had Santana asked Brittany those same questions four years ago, the answer would have come without hesitation.

The hurt that still flared inside Brittany blocked any initial response, but it was so very telling that even with the lies, the faked death, the barrier of emotional fallout between them, Brittany still had that one truth inside of her: that she loved Santana, that she trusted her.

The realization and admission defeated her, caused her eyes to lower as she nodded quietly.

A rush of air fluttered suddenly across her forearm. Santana had her eyes closed, and she looked exhausted, almost pale, like she had been holding her breath.

"Brittany." The four years that had passed between them became suddenly apparent. In the lines on Santana's face, the gash on her cheek and the rough, calloused fingers that didn't touch her now. Dark eyes shined at her, haunted and wearing an expression that Brittany hadn't seen since senior year, in high school. "I'm sorry."

Brittany remembered that expression.

"You're scared," she breathed.

Santana's eyes grew wide, thrown at the sudden accusation. "Of course I'm scared," she spat, almost incredulous. "I'm fucking terrified, Brittany. I'm scared of what will happen if they find you. I'm scared of losing you again. I'm scared of what I'll do if I ever find Quinn. Mostly I'm terrified that you'll never forgive me for what I've done." Santana's fingers played destructively with the sheet between them, on the verge of tearing it to bits. "That you'll never love me again."

The quiet, gentle admission tore at Brittany, broke through the last of her barriers like a bull charging through a splintering fence.

Her fingers covered Santana's, stilling her spastic, nervous movements. On her face was a reassuring, sweet smile. "I love you," she whispered, with perfect intonation, no room for misinterpretation. "I've never stopped loving you. I'll go with you. Wherever you want to go."

She waited only a moment for the words to sink into Santana, before she caught the brief flicker of understanding and leaned forward.

When she pressed her lips against Santana's jaw, she heard a ragged inhalation, felt a slight stiffening against her mouth, proof of her effect on Santana.

To know it, to remember it, gave her a ridiculous burst of adrenaline; her body literally began to hum.

"Brittany." Brittany ignored the throaty, helpless moan. She closed her eyes, inhaled the sweaty, musky smell of sex that mingled with Santana's own scent, and opened her mouth wetly against the most sensitive part of Santana's neck. "Brittany-"

"Shhh." Taking the sheet between them, Brittany lifted it away, baring them both. Brittany paused, content for the moment to simply look at Santana, from manicured toes to a tousled, brunette head and eyes clouded with naked, conflicted desire.

There had never been a more seductive sight.

"I just want to make you feel something else for a minute." Maybe Santana recognized the sentence; she swallowed hard, trembled against her.

Brittany kissed her, and it felt like the first time, when she was a little bossy kid who had just branded Santana for her very own, because back then, she had been taught that writing her name on things meant they belonged to her.

Her innocence was gone. Brittany was no longer a child, and the grief she had suffered had taken away much of her child-like innocence. What remained had been stolen by the Intersect in her head, and the events surrounding it.

Still, in that moment, she felt almost glad for it. It was like she was reborn, like she had been jolted awake after a very long sleep, and could rediscover everything, as if it were the first time.

She coated her fingers with the slick wetness between Santana's legs, hiked in her breath as she slowly probed swollen flesh, felt Santana cry out and submit to her, body and soul.

Brittany needed it. She needed it more than she needed anything. She needed Santana, with her enigmatic expressions and haunted demeanor, to open herself in a way she only ever had with Brittany.

She left a smear as she spread Santana's legs, shuddered with desire and longing as she pressed an intimate kiss against Santana's breast, her trembling, toned stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps edging toward her thighs.

It was with the relief of an addict that she tasted Santana, moaning into her movements, hearing the cry and pushing back against the jerk of Santana's hips.

She didn't close her eyes. She didn't want to. She wanted to watch the way Santana writhed above her, looking tortured and in rapture at the same time, making those wordless moans and sighs that grew higher in pitch the closer she got, the harder Brittany stroked with her tongue.

Towards the end, when Santana was actively bucking and Brittany had her fingers inside her, Brittany felt fingers tangling with her hand, the one pressed flat against Santana's hip, keeping her pinned down.

She grabbed them, kept them close, and felt them clench, locking with hers as Santana flew over the edge, muscles clamping hard around Brittany, flooding her mouth and chin with the proof of her effect on Santana.

Afterward, Santana lay there, trembling, with her eyes closed and teardrops on her eyelids, absorbed in the experience.

To Brittany, she looked reborn.

With a kiss against Santana's lips, Brittany turned the sated and pliable body into herself, letting Santana sink into her curves, expel tufts of hot breath against her neck.

"Fuck," she heard, and she smiled. Santana's fear was gone, and in its place was a curious sedation, like Santana had been drugged. Her eyes fluttered, her body stretched against Brittany's like a cat.

Brittany's mouth brushed against Santana's temple. "Get some rest."

"There's no time," Santana mumbled, but the argument was a weak one, because already, she was growing heavy in Brittany's arms.

"Yes there is," Brittany insisted. "You're safe for a few minutes."

If Santana were lucid, she might have argued. Instead, she mumbled something Brittany couldn't quite make out, and drifted off.

It was the beginning of the rest of their lives, and when Brittany looked at it that way, with Santana's naked body settled so safely against hers, and the taste of her on her lips, being infected with the Intersect virus didn't seem so bad.

Not if Brittany and Santana were there, keeping each other safe.

But in the quiet, Brittany couldn't help the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she considered the sacrifice that meant.

Where she couldn't even say good-bye.

With wide-open eyes, Brittany shifted against Santana. Her clothes had been ripped away, and next to the pile that included Santana's leather jacket, was her cellphone.


	6. Chapter 5

**TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress  
>AUTHOR: Misty Flores<strong>

**PART FIVE**

_You fooled me with your kisses  
>You cheated and you schemed<br>Heaven knows how you lied to me  
>You're not the way you seemed<em>  
>-'(You're the) Devil In Disguise', Elvis Presley<p>

* * *

><p>In the dark evening hours, Quinn Fabray toed a very thin line that blurred both her reality and her persona.<p>

She had come here tonight with every intention of seducing Rachel.

Mission accomplished. Sort of.

Had she been allowed more than one moment to even consider the reason it had happened, or how it had come to pass, she would have been terrified, because the truth was that she had allowed herself to be seduced.

By Rachel Berry.

Worse than that, she had allowed herself to have been made love to, and though her mind, trained to bleed every bit of emotion out of her in even these most intimate moments, fought hard to separate her from the act itself, Quinn had lost control.

Once again, she had been infected by Rachel Berry, drugged with lust and a deeper emotion that overpowered every inhibition.

Seduction was a power play, and it was one that Quinn knew well. Every move was calculated: every touch that lingered, every smirk that turned upward, every gaze, held just a little too long, it all had a purpose. To entice and draw near, make a person reckless and fill them with so much desire it broke them away from their common sense, until they could think of nothing else but being fulfilled, satiated; wanted.

Quinn had always equated submission with weakness. Submitting to Puck had resulted in a pregnancy that had knocked her world askew. Half of her loyalty to Fulcrum came from her sheer lust for dominance and power, and Quinn knew that about herself.

God, it was fucking textbook, and instead of acknowledging that, instead of rolling out of Rachel's surprisingly luxurious sheets and heading for the hills, Quinn's body seemed weighted with the sleepy laziness of the after affects of an astounding orgasm, with a naked Rachel pinning her at her side, and swollen lips receiving deep, lingering kisses that smacked of intimacy and hunger.

Even after what transpired between them, Quinn couldn't stop kissing Rachel.

It made her stupid. She couldn't think. Every time she tried, Rachel's mouth would press against hers, and her mind would go fuzzy. She was sluggish and the taste of herself on Rachel's lips and tongue caused a shiver of arousal that felt primal.

Just the feel of her, settled against her, legs tangled and Rachel's foot rubbing against her calf, sent such a thrill within her, Quinn felt like that high school girl all over again, except instead of wanting to punish Rachel for daring to affect her in ways Quinn would not admit, Quinn wanted to worship instead.

In a very blasphemous way.

Rachel's mouth broke from hers, trailed hotly against her cheekbones, and lingered just under her ear, expelling hot breath that sent tingles through Quinn's body. Fingers playing idly with the dark curls that tumbled down Rachel's bare back, Quinn lost herself in the moment.

When the contact suddenly paused, Quinn's eyes opened. Rachel, with mussed hair and shining dark eyes, propped up with a palm against her head, studied her curiously.

"You're beautiful when you smile," she said, voice husky in a way Quinn had never heard before tonight. Color flushed on Rachel's face. "You probably hear that all the time."

She did. Never had she heard it quite so sincerely.

Quinn lifted her head and offered a reassuring and playful kiss that caused a smile to form on Rachel's lips.

"So I've always wanted to know something," she found herself saying, settling on her side, mirroring Rachel's position. Rachel's brow arched curiously. "Those sex scenes you guys have to film. Do you ever get turned on doing them?"

It was a silly question, but Quinn's oddly giddy state seemed to fuel the mood, and when Rachel laughed and turned her head to bury her expression in the pillow, the sweetness was affecting.

"Actually," Rachel said, a moment later, the blush fading as she recovered from her moment of embarrassment. "It's intensely uncomfortable. There's never less than twenty people in the room, the lights are always blindingly hot, and it's ridiculous trying to be sexy when you both have pants on underneath the sheets."

Quinn's mouth quirked at the thought. "Sexy," she drawled.

"And the guy my character is dating?" Rachel smiled in a conspiring way. "Flaming."

"Seriously?"

Rachel shrugged. "We make it work. We have quite a fanbase." A smug smile formed on Rachel's lips. "I'm very good at love scenes."

The confidence, the arrogance, that Quinn would once find eternally annoying had a decidedly different effect at the moment. Something inside her actually quivered.

"So it would seem," she admitted, and unable to help herself, she shifted forward, until Rachel's palm settled on her waist with an air that was almost possessive.

Quinn closed the space between them, mouth melting against Rachel's in a demanding kiss. She pushed now, leading Rachel onto her back and settling in against her.

A long moment later, Rachel pulled back, resting her head on the pillow, content to revel in the touches Quinn didn't know how to stop, spreading fingers against Rachel's cheeks, through the tousled locks that spread against Rachel's deep burgundy sheets.

"You just have to believe the lie." Quinn's smile faltered, but Rachel, keening into her palm, didn't notice. "You know?" Her smile was content, safe. "That's all acting is."

Quinn's mantra, bursting forth so casually from Rachel's lips, might as well have been a splash of cold water over Quinn's heated body.

"Right," she mumbled. It was enough to distract Rachel, bring her focus back to her. "I guess being a spy is kind of the same thing." She shrugged lightly, managed a smile, and didn't think about how beautiful Rachel suddenly seemed, underneath her questing fingers and sated body.

"What do you mean?"

Quinn pressed her lips together. Her index finger crested over the bridge of Rachel's nose; smoothed over Rachel's brow.

It would have been so easy, to believe in this lie. To block the world out and focus exclusively on their intimate embrace, the smell of sex, pretend that nothing existed outside of this bed.

"I mean it's kind of like being an actress." Quinn's hair, wild from Rachel's wandering hands, fell between them, tickling Rachel's cheek. Immediately, Rachel reached up and smoothed the bangs back, curving them over Quinn's ear.

Quinn noticed the bruise of a hickey on the side of Rachel's throat.

She had never given someone a hickey. Ever.

"You spend so much time being someone else; you kind of forget who you really are." Who you were. Who you once thought you wanted to be.

A rush of air, the sound of a soft exhalation, and the light scratch of Rachel combing fingers through Quinn's hair brought her back to the moment, to the sensation of a naked Rachel Berry underneath her, staring up at her with such tenderness it was both disconcerting and compelling to witness.

Rachel's eyes were curiously moist. "That sounds lonely."

Quinn's breath hitched. Soberly, with the mind of a disenchanted spy, Quinn finally understood her own bitterness, and why, at this moment, things felt so oddly different, why she was so willing to believe.

Quinn had been lonely her entire life.

She licked her lips, felt Rachel shift underneath her, thighs moving, bringing her in closer, until their naked bodies were plastered so tightly together Quinn could feel Rachel's heartbeat hammering against hers.

With a tenderness she could not mask, Quinn whispered, "I don't feel so lonely right now."

The smile Rachel bestowed on her, rich and full and somehow deep with meaning, caused a lurch inside Quinn, a flutter of sudden desire that left her helpless against her instinct, to lower her head and initiate another embrace.

It deepened quickly, with muted whimpers and heavy sighs.

Heart racing, blood pounding, Quinn didn't hear Rachel's phone ringing. Not until Rachel, arching under her questing mouth, said again, "My phone-"

"What?" she asked dumbly, head lifting as Rachel squirmed underneath her, shifting until she had her back to Quinn, reaching for her ringing mobile.

"It's Brittany."

Quinn, teeth dragging against the smooth expanse of Rachel's shoulder, immediately froze. The desire faded. Her fingers clenched against Rachel's bicep.

The world had gone on around them, and it was only now that Quinn noticed the daylight beginning to make itself noticeable, shining in through Rachel's windows.

Closing her eyes, she sucked in a heady, harsh breath, as Rachel answered.

_Believe the lie_.

Quinn kept her mouth shut. She looked around the room, noticed the tangled sheets, the discarded bedspread. Felt the dull ache of her bruised ribs and wounded shoulder.

Rachel, deep in her conversation with Brittany, shifted out of her arms, unaware of her nakedness, of the mark that had branded her with Quinn's enthusiasm.

"Brittany, please! If you're really leaving just tell me where you are. I can bring you some clothes. At least let me say good-bye. No, Brittany, you can trust me. I promise."

The corner of Quinn's mouth jerked, a phantom, reassuring smile that felt empty when she looked at Rachel's puffy, abused lips, her naked, trusting eyes.

For a crazy, insane moment, Quinn wanted to grab hold of Rachel, snatch the phone out of her hands, and drag her to the door, take her away from all of this.

For a crazy, insane moment, Quinn suddenly understood Santana.

But it passed. Not without effort. Not without a steady inhalation, tamping down the feelings that had surfaced, clogging her throat and bringing with them a sudden frustration that made her itch for something tangible that she could break.

God, Fuck Rachel. Seriously. Because Quinn was in her bed, knew the taste of her, the smell of her, and hadn't realized how starved she had been for someone to see her until Rachel called her lonely.

Quinn wasn't the same girl she was in high school. She was a killer. A liar, a cheater, and her fate was her own to make. She was a Fulcrum agent, and by some considerations a traitor. She was good at what she did, better than Santana, because she knew what was at stake.

The Intersect.

Brittany.

Quinn listened.

She pushed off the bed silently, and grabbed hold of her jeans, ignoring the pulsing complaint of her ribs.

* * *

><p>When Santana awoke, she immediately became aware of two things.<p>

One was Brittany, who had curled into her back, nose digging into her nape, fingers massaging lightly against a scabbing wound on her bicep.

The second was the rays of the sun peeking through her blinds, warming a spot on her leg.

"FUCK."

Santana's eyes were crusted over with caked on mascara. Her body was heavy, slow to move thanks to the deep sleep. When she jerked up, she nearly toppled Brittany over.

"What's wrong?"

Already, her heart had begun to pound as her mind screamed at her with the ramifications of her little siesta.

"You shouldn't have let me sleep." Santana stumbled to the dresser and grabbed hold of a fresh pair of pants. "It's late. It's really fucking late."

Brittany didn't move. Instead, she only sat on the bed, colored eyes following Santana's every move, as she jerked on the pants one leg at a time, weaved a leather belt through the loops, and grabbed her Beretta, checking the safety and the clip before shoving it in her jeans, flat against her spine.

"You looked so tired." Brittany's expression was an uncertain haze, legs crossing and hand rubbing at her forearm. "I didn't want to wake you up."

"Fuck, Brittany, really? We've got the entire fucking world coming after us and you think getting a fucking cat nap is what I need?" The snap, the anger, came out of her before she could help it. Brittany saw it, flinched at the emotion, and immediately, Santana winced, heart twisting in self-recrimination. "I'm sorry." She strode forward, forced herself to sit on the bed, ignore the sun, ignore the inner clock in her head that reminded her insistently that they were running out of time. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Brittany glanced up, and Santana leaned forward, brushed a tender kiss against Brittany's full lips, pressed a palm against a soft cheek. "I'm sorry."

On Brittany's face was a sad grimace. "It seems like all you've been doing since I saw you again is apologize."

Santana bit the inside of her cheek, forced herself not to automatically apologize for that. "Brittany, I promise, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make all this up to you. But if I'm going to have a chance in hell, we have to leave. Now." Brittany didn't move. It was maddening. "Brittany, please."

"I don't have any clothes."

"I have clothes."

Stubborn eyes locked onto her own. "They won't fit."

Gritting her teeth, Santana clenched the sheets between them in an effort to stave off her frustration. "So wear your Buy More uniform."

"It's dirty."

"Brittany!" A pulsing pain hit Santana sharply between the temples, a testament to both her stress and her irritation. Shutting her eyes, she took a moment for herself, inhaled deeply and then blindly reached for Brittany's hand.

It meant something, at least, that Brittany met her halfway. Santana's eyes opened, and she studied their fingers, tan and pale digits tangled in Brittany's lap.

"Brittany, babe, I know this sucks. I know it does. Believe me. It sucks that you can't say good-bye, and it sucks that this happened, but there is one upside."

Brittany's eyes gleamed with conflicted emotion. "What?" Fingers unconsciously rubbed against her intimately. Santana found herself momentarily distracted by the act.

For a moment, she was overcome.

With a choked smile, she squeezed. "We can have a life together," she whispered, voice cracking with certainty. "Brittany, we can get married."

Like they had planned, before Sue Sylvester and the Intersect and the god-damn world got in the way.

"We can find a place in Italy, or a little island near Greece..." The words, the dreams, came out breathless and full of wonder, because it was so tangible, so in reach. When Brittany stared at her, tightened her grip with hers, Santana offered a watery smile. "Tell me you still want that. Tell me you still want me."

It was a terrible moment, until Brittany leaned forward and captured her lips in a fervent, earnest kiss.

When they broke apart, it was only for air, as Brittany's forehead tilted against hers, as Santana heard fervently, "I've never wanted anything else."

She felt lips on her mouth, her cheek, before Brittany let her go, scooting toward the edge of the bed and gathering her discarded pants, shaking out the grime.

It was then that Santana noticed her own cell phone, half-hidden in a sheet on Brittany's side of the bed.

Her heart dropped. Willing herself not to say a word, Santana reached for the phone, and pressed a button, watching the LED screen light up.

The most recent call had been made a half an hour ago.

The number was Rachel Berry's.

Santana's hand began to tremble, a knot of emotion spiked hard into her throat. "Brittany," she breathed, eyes darting up. "Please tell me you didn't call Rachel while I was asleep."

It had been four years, but even in that time, Brittany had not learned to lie. The guilty turn of her mouth was more than enough confirmation.

Santana's fingers clenched hard around her phone, willing herself to try and stay calm. "Did you tell her where we are?"

Brittany shook her head, but her shoulders slumped, as if Brittany wasn't sure to be defiant or ashamed. "I didn't give her an exact address-"

"You didn't fucking HAVE TO," Santana snapped, the heat rising to her cheeks, panic fluttering in her chest. "If she kept you on the phone for more than a half a minute Fulcrum would have traced the call-"

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

Scrambling off the bed, Santana jerked on her shirt, shoved her feet into shoes.

"Santana, we can trust her-"

And that was it. Santana had enough. "God, Brittany!" she snapped, whirling, eyes moist with frustrated tears. "No, you can't! Don't you get it? We can't trust ANYONE. Not Rachel. Not Quinn... God, I can't even trust you-" Furious, Santana was fucking furious. Furious enough to ignore the flash of hurt that swept across Brittany's face. "We have to go. Now."

The knock on the door was enough to make Santana nearly jump out of her own skin.

"Brittany? Santana?" Rachel Berry's voice floated in from the other side. "It's me! It's Rachel! Please, just let me in."

Santana worked the action on her gun and flicked off the safety as she trained the sights on the door.

"Santana-"

"Brittany, stay the hell away from the door," she snapped, circling the room to Brittany and drawing her in behind her.

"It's just Rachel-"

"Brittany-" In her frustration, in her effort to keep Brittany still, Santana lost her focus.

It was a terrible mistake.

The grenade that was lobbed in through the window hit the floor with a hard smack.

Santana only had a moment to process it, plow into Brittany like a linebacker, when the room exploded in an earsplitting bang and a flash so bright, it blinded her.

After it came the inevitable chaos—the door slammed open, the heavy steps of boots, and what felt like a dagger slamming into her back.

The last thing she heard before she lost consciousness was Brittany's scream.

* * *

><p>What Rachel was doing was a clear betrayal of Brittany's trust.<p>

Rachel understood it. She told herself that it was for the greater good, because Santana was a monster who was using Brittany, betraying her love for her in order to keep whatever it was that was in Brittany's head for herself.

She had the reassurance of Quinn, the evidence of her bruises, her scratches and bandaged shoulder, the way Quinn kissed her so tenderly and promised her she was doing the right thing, that Brittany would be safe.

None of that had prepared Rachel for the hysterical shriek of Brittany crying out Santana's name, the unconscious form of Santana, a dart in her back, being hauled off Brittany by two agents.

The look on Brittany's face, the way she fought against the men who grabbed her to get to Santana, it spoke of true terror.

Rachel jerked out of her stupor, running into the room that smelt like burnt smoke.  
>"Brittany!" she tried, reaching out for her friend, trying hard to calm her, even as her throat clogged and her heart spasmed in her chest. "Please, it's for the best!"<p>

Brittany only stared at her, a miserable expression on her face. "Are you serious?" she whispered. "Oh God, Rachel—"

"Quinn's here!" Rachel tried, and then flinched as the men who had come with Quinn grabbed hold of Brittany, forcing her to her knees. "Leave her alone!"

Across the room, Quinn Fabray, outfitted in the same black garb of her companions, knelt against Santana. She had her cellphone against her ear.

"Quinn," Rachel tried, desperate now. "Tell them!"

Quinn only glanced up at her with an expression that seemed so distant and removed, she could have been a stranger.

"Rachel, are you stupid?" Brittany's voice cracked, desperate and hysterical. "Quinn's the bad guy!"

"No," she insisted, shaking her head vehemently. "That's just what Santana told you-"

"Santana was PROTECTING ME," spat Brittany. Those men, those scary men, bound Brittany's wrists, dragging her to her feet. Brittany, her best friend, her roommate, looked almost swallowed up by those men in black, and yet there was nothing Rachel could do.

Across the loft, Quinn stood over the unconscious form of Santana with her back to her, and her phone to her ear.

"Brittany..."

"From Quinn and Fulcrum. They're a terrorist organization and they wanted the Intersect. What's inside of me. Santana came to save me."

It couldn't be true. It couldn't. Brittany was wrong. Brittany had to be wrong, because if she was right, then it meant...

She didn't want to think about what it meant. She stared beseechingly at Quinn, desperate for the other woman to defend herself, to reassure Brittany, tell her everything that she had told Rachel that made her believe.

But Quinn just stood there.

Rachel whirled, tried to do it herself. "Brittany," she began, but then agents began to move, jerking Brittany out of her embrace. "Brittany-"

"You said I could trust you." Brittany, always so expressive, wore her heartbreak like a painted expression. Dragged to her feet, she was shoved toward the door.

Left alone, Rachel could only stand in the midst of all this chaos, and attempt to make sense of it.

A flat square of plastic, most likely fallen from Santana's pocket, lay on the floor beside Rachel's foot.

Slowly, deliberately, Rachel leaned down and with great apprehension, brought the object in view.

On the badge, a picture of Santana smiled at her, almost politely. Directly underneath were block letters that called her 'Molly Chambers'. Above it? Blue letters that identified the person as NSA.

Struck mute, she searched for Quinn, desperate for answers; reasons that would have this make sense.

But when she found her, Quinn offered nothing but a closed, tense stare, without any attempt to explain or reassure. There wasn't even a hint of the woman who had embraced Rachel so tenderly earlier that morning, who had smiled a beautiful smile and looked almost a little bit broken when Rachel called her lonely.

God... Rachel had been so blind.

"Santana wasn't the bad guy," she realized, her world suddenly dropping out from under her as the truth became so apparent and real.

"Oh here it comes." Ramos, the man who had only hours ago joked with her and made her believe he was there to keep her safe, laughed harshly. "The big dramatic scene from the soap actress. Who's got popcorn?"

"Shut up!" Quinn's voice was sharp. The pain began to pulse as Rachel's eyes watered, gaze jerking to Brittany, who could only stare at her miserably, hands tied behind her back, straining between two agents who looked almost bored.

There was blood. Actual blood, on Rachel's hands. It was Santana and Brittany's, and she could almost feel it, thick and syrupy on her hands.

"Rachel."

Just hearing Quinn speak her name was staggering. Rachel shook her head violently, trembling in her emotion. "You used me," she whispered, horrified and devastated. "You used me to betray my best friend."

Quinn, with a gun in her hand and a blank expression, even though her mouth trembled and her breath grew heavy, could say nothing in her defense, because it was the truth.

Rachel had been seduced, her trust abused, and it had been easy for Quinn to do it. Less than a day since Quinn had walked into her life again and already she had shared Rachel's bed, seen the deepest part of her.

Rachel, thinking she was falling in love, had been a simple patsy.

"Don't feel bad, Berry," Ramos slapped a hard, heavy hand on her shoulder. Just his touch was enough to cause a shudder of revulsion. "You're not the first. You're not going to be the last, right Fabray?"

"How about you shut the hell up and do your fucking job for once?" Quinn, who was beautiful even now, barked her orders in the same tone she had used to order around her Cheerios. The urge to hate her was rampant and willing. "Take those two downstairs. Andrews is waiting downstairs."

"Even Chambers?" Santana, who still lay slumped on the floor, hogtied like an animal.

"Andrews found out she was in the program. She wants to turn her."

"Are you fucking serious?" Ramos spat.

"Yes." Quinn's eyes flashed with authority, her voice hard with intent. "Just do it."

"And what about her?" Ramos' hand, still on her shoulder, squeezed hard, and Rachel closed her eyes, betrayed by her own fear, sucking in a shuddering breath.

When she gathered the courage to open her eyes, Quinn was her only focus.

As their eyes met, Rachel was overtaken with a memory: of a smile spreading across kissable lips, a crystal laugh erupting as this woman, her lover, shifted against her naked body, and looked at her and made her feel like she saw no one else.

Rachel almost couldn't stand the pain. It suddenly didn't matter what would happen now.

Quinn had just killed her.

It was almost anti-climatic, when she heard Quinn say, "Andrews wants me to take care of her by myself."

"Rachel," Brittany cried, and Rachel only shifted her head and tried to smile stoically for her best friend.

"It'll be okay, Brittany," she lied, and the way her voice held was almost impressive.

She had sealed Brittany and Santana's fate; she would accept her own.

"What the hell are you waiting for? Get going! If the NSA shows up looking for their poster child, we're going to have a fucking blood bath."

With Quinn's gun on her, Rachel couldn't move. Instead, she could only watch, as Brittany was dragged away behind Santana. The men with the guns, who Quinn had sworn were there to save Brittany, vacated Santana's safehouse as quickly as they had blasted into it, closing the door behind them and leaving her with death itself.

Now, there was only her and this stranger, who had played her as easily as Jesse had when she was sixteen, toying with her heart for the sake of a win. She remembered her plea to Jesse when it had all started, how if this was a trap she was sure she would never recover. She remembered his laugh, the way he held her, his confident, kind brown eyes.

God, and here she was again, in this over-the-top Mexican standoff that felt like a ratings climax to one of her soap's sweeps arc. Rachel knew her place: the willing fool, who had cost Romeo and Juliet their happiness, when she had given them over to a mustache twirling villain who even wore the trademark, conflicted expression, like this was actually hard for her.

Just the gall of Quinn to even pretend to have a conscious now was infuriating.

"Everything you told me," Rachel began, wanting to laugh with the stupidity of it. "All that stuff about Santana being dangerous, about not being who she was... it was all lies. Shreds of truth twisted to make it more real." God... "Believe the lie," she whispered, recalling an intimate conversation in the aftermath of what she thought had been making love, and what she now knew was Quinn completing her seduction.

The gun that had been held so casually in her direction wavered suddenly. Quinn's fingers twitched, and suddenly Quinn looked restless, haunted. "It's not personal, Rachel," she blurted, like it made any sort of difference.

But it was. Rachel remembered what felt like a thousand instances from her young high school life, from pornographic images drawn on bathroom walls to cruel, cutting comments written on her MySpace profile, that told her every move Quinn had taken had been intensely personal.

"God, how do you do that?" Quinn didn't answer. "How do you LIE like that?" she asked, the anger rising within her, overwhelming her senses. "It's always been personal with you. Why, Quinn? What did I ever do to you to make you hate me so much?"

She genuinely wanted to know. She ached to know, because Rachel couldn't fathom it. She couldn't understand what she had done to Quinn that had been so horrible that it warranted doing what she had, destroying her life in the time it took to send one email.

Maybe she finally got to Quinn, because hazel eyes flashed, cheeks flushed, and that gun came down. "That's always been your problem, you know that?" Black boots stepped toward her. Quinn sucked in a harsh, heavy breath. "You always had to make it about you, no matter what. Like no one else mattered. What did you think, Rachel? That I'd find out you're prone to fucking girls and I would thank my lucky stars? That you were so fucking special that I would drop everything just to be with you? That I would fuck you and suddenly think that you'd be more important than a billion dollar superweapon that could change the world?"

In that moment, Quinn was ugly. Ugly in a way Rachel had never imagined she could be. The words stung, bit into her heart and made her eyes water, and Rachel felt so _stupid_. "Maybe not," she whispered, fighting the tears. "But I thought that maybe, somehow, you were still an actual person, who wouldn't destroy innocent people like Santana and Brittany to do it."

"God." Quinn kicked at the floor, skidding the Beretta that had been disarmed from Santana across the floor. "Look at that. That's a _gun_, Rachel. And Santana would have used it. On me. On you. On whoever got between her and Brittany. I don't know how it works in soap operas, but in real life, there isn't some big romantic hero that's going to come in and sweep you off your feet and save you because you're so fucking special."

"No." Rachel's response was snide. "There are only monsters that destroy innocent widows because they've been stupid enough to hold a grudge for 8 years. I feel sorry for you," she snapped, "You know that? You are lonely. And you're _pathetic_."

A hand snapped up, snatched her around the throat, fingers bruising into the skin. "I'm pathetic?" Quinn asked, breath huffing against Rachel's mouth. "Says the girl who gave it up in less than ten hours? Who wanted so badly to believe in her knight in shining armor she'd betray her own best friend? Wake up, Rachel. That perfect romance doesn't exist."

And then Quinn seemed to see her; the way she struggled against the grip, the way her face was rapidly turning red, because her eyes widened and her grip, so hard and unyielding, released suddenly. Rachel's knees threatened to give out, and she staggered, catching hold of herself against a chair. Her heart beat terribly fast, but her eyes were defiant, angry, because Quinn was wrong. "It did exist," she wheezed. "You killed it."

Quinn looked like a stranger, eyes blazing with a righteous fury, half-crazed and almost demented with her own anger. There was so much bitterness, so much anger, and Rachel found she didn't care why it was there.

Not anymore. Not when her own heart was ripped and bleeding, and she was minutes away from her own execution.

All because she had been stupid enough to believe Quinn had once been family.

"What, you think they had a fairy tale romance? Mr. and Mrs. Fucks-a-lot? Santana faked her death, remember?" Quinn's head shook. "She left Brittany, let her believe she was dead, and she wouldn't have even come back if it wasn't for me."

And Quinn was doing it again, twisting those words, believing her own lie. "So what?" Rachel shook her head in disbelief. "You want a thank you, now?"

That, at least, seemed to shut Quinn up. She absorbed that, with a clenched jaw and a flaring of her nostrils. "People are human," she said finally. "They're not good and they're not evil. Everyone makes choices. Santana's not an innocent. She knows this life. She chose this life, and knew the consequences."

And maybe in this world, with the guns and the spies and the constant lying, that made some sort of twisted sense to people like Santana and Quinn.

But this wasn't that life. "And what about Brittany?" Rachel asked softly. "What did she do to choose this?"

Quinn, with her odd sense of ethics, could say nothing to that. There was no witty comeback, no flash of righteous anger, only a muted grimace and a cloudiness in her eyes, a brief speck of humanity that recognized the sheer unfairness of what happened to someone like Brittany.

"Shit happens."

Shit happens. That was it. That was Quinn's summation, her justification for supplanting herself in Rachel's life, for inadvertently causing Brittany to become infected and ruining her and Santana's life.

Disbelief unfurled within her, and all Rachel could see now in place of that beautiful woman who had intoxicated her, was a coward.

"God," she breathed. "I can't believe I ever thought I could love you."

Maybe that was her choice, to say something like that out loud, so cutting and cruel and devastatingly honest, meant to wound whatever was left of Quinn's heart.

Maybe it worked, because Quinn's head jerked, eyes locked with hers intensely, searching wildly for some validation to what she had implied.

Like there was actual hope.

It was ridiculous. It was pathetic and ridiculous and Rachel gave her no such satisfaction.

"You should know something." The anger that seemed to infect Quinn so easily had disappeared, and in its place was some breathless, quivering expression, like Quinn had been affected. She looked like some beautifully devastating version of the Grim Reaper. "Last night." Just the thought of those insincere intimate moments was enough to make Rachel shudder. Quinn caught the movement; her eyes darkened. "This morning," she continued. "It was the most real I've been... since I can remember. That person you saw was me, Rachel."

The murderer with a heart. The twist of many a romantic arc. The bad guy who was reformed by the love of a good woman.

Just another lie, another manipulation, and Rachel had had enough. "What?" she snapped, crossing her arms and jutting her chin out in defiant anger. "Do you expect me to feel special about that?"

At the very least, Quinn looked like she had been struck. "No," she whispered. "I just thought you should know. I'm sorry, Rachel."

All Rachel could see beyond that apology was Quinn's gun rising.

Rachel wanted to be strong. She wanted to stand there, revel in the fury and anguish that overpowered everything else. It was so much easier to feel that than the guilt, or the irreparable misery of her broken heart.

* * *

><p>This couldn't be happening.<p>

Not now. Not after every promise that she and Santana had made to each other. Not after swearing that this time, there would be nothing but happy endings, a wedding in Greece or Italy or Argentina or whatever country they could escape to that wasn't here.

Four years, eight years, sixteen years; time had never seemed to matter before, not the way it had come to matter before. When they were young, before they knew better, Santana and Brittany had always stupidly thought they had forever, because they were the lucky ones.

They would be together for the rest of their lives.

Instead of that, Brittany was being pulled away from Santana one more time, watching in miserable hysteria as the love of her life was dragged into an SUV.

"Don't struggle." The man who held her, with jet black hair and dark eyes, tightened his grip around her arms. "Andrews won't give a shit if you come to her unconscious."

The way he pushed, with the flat of his palm, nearly gave her whiplash. Brittany fell forward into the back of a sedan, nearly planting face first into toned legs and a dark skirt.

She was stopped by a hard grip on her shoulders, setting her upright.

"Brittany S. Pierce." Managing to look both amused and bored, was an attractive woman in her early fifties, with dark cat eyes and a stern smile. "It's nice to finally meet you. My name is Laura Andrews."

And it happened. Even through the fear, through her complete panic, the flood of information surged through her, a cascade of images and videos and every classified file that the government had on this woman; this face.

The door slammed behind Brittany, locking her in with one of the most wanted women in America.

"Please," she whispered, unsure what she could even ask for. "Santana-"

"You don't have to worry about her," Laura Andrews said, as the car rumbled to life. "She may not be as important as you, but she's not without her usefulness." The agent settled primly in the back of her seat and offered a thin smirk. "You should get comfortable. We've got a long ride. And since, I'm guessing, you already know a lot about me," she said, with twinkling eyes, as if this was all somehow deeply funny. "Why don't we talk about you? Tell me, Brittany S. Pierce, how did a former dancer and a current Buy More employee become host of one of the most powerful weapons ever developed?"

With a heavy breath, Brittany opened her mouth, and then closed it. Her eyes moved beseechingly to the traffic that passed outside her windows.

"I don't know," she breathed. "I don't know anything."

* * *

><p>Rachel Berry, less than five feet away, with scrunched palms, closed eyes, trembled from head to toe.<p>

She was waiting for the gunshot that would end her life.

One bullet would end it. Painlessly. Quickly.

Quinn was never without conflict. She wasn't a monster. She just understood that ends justified the means, and in that respect, good and evil didn't matter. It wasn't supposed to matter.

Stuff like that only mattered when she was naïve, and stupid, and Quinn had lost a family, a baby, over it.

She had sworn to never be that person again, had trained her mind to obey her, ignore her emotions and impulses, and that meant she could pull the trigger, absorb the feeling of loss, and move on.

Back to the world that she knew. Back to the games of power and deceit.

But Quinn, who had never realized how lonely she was until she wasn't, found herself wavering, stuck in that same conflict that had taken over since the moment she picked up her phone and heard Rachel Berry on the other line.

Since then, she had discovered that Santana had both died and been resurrected. She discovered that Santana, who had always been just like her, wasn't like her at all, because for her, walking away from it wasn't even a question, not in the face of her loyalty and love for Brittany.

Since then, Quinn had discovered a truth that repeated over and over inside her mind, latching onto her soul and overpowering everything, telling her that somehow, Rachel had seen her, really seen her, and fallen in love with her.

And Quinn had fallen in love right back.

"What are you waiting for?" Rachel's eyes opened. Quinn blocked the moan that rose within her, swallowed it down and didn't speak. "Do it. Finish it."

_'I'm trying'_, she thought miserably, because she knew she had to. These were orders. Rachel's fate had been sealed, as had her own. This wasn't high school. This was her reality, where a kill order meant a dead body, and no other option.

Rachel stared at her, and it just made it worse, because Quinn saw dark brown eyes, liquid in fear. Her chest tightened, heart pumping blood faster, and Quinn grew breathless, because Rachel was beautiful.

If she killed her, if she pulled the trigger and ended Rachel, she would be killing herself. That last link to that scared girl in high school, who, although she had been stupid and morally bankrupt and trying so hard to be a better person, had been part of a family.

A groan of frustration worked out of her throat, sounding mottled and furious.

"Are you enjoying this?" Rachel, trembling, dramatic Rachel, stepped forward, closer to her and her gun. "Are you trying to draw this out? Do it! Take care of me."

"Rachel," she breathed, gritting her teeth, feeling like the fucking Grinch as her heart exploded within her.

"I hope you love this. I hope this really was all worth it, Quinn. I hope-"

"Rachel, SHUT THE HELL UP," she snapped, and it was over. She couldn't. She literally couldn't. It was beyond her. She was powerless, felled by an annoying Jewish Soap Actress who had the social skills of a gnat. "I'm not going to kill you," she admitted.

That, at least, had managed to rob Rachel of her Emmy winning monologue. "What?" she squeaked, and looked so thrown, so unsure, that Quinn could only do what was instinctive.

Locking the safety in place, shoving her gun in her holster, Quinn stepped forward, hauled Rachel to her, and said again as her head lowered, "I'm not going to kill you."

She kissed her instead.  
>****<p> 


	7. Chapter 6

**TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress  
>AUTHOR: Misty Flores<strong>

**PART SIX**

_Interchanging mind control, come let the  
>Revolution take its toll, if you could<br>Flick a switch and open your third eye, you'd see that  
>We should never be afraid to die, so come on<em>  
>-'Uprising', Muse<p>

* * *

><p>"You don't know anything about the Intersect, do you, Brittany? Other than what you get from your head, I mean."<p>

Brittany shook her head mutely.

The plastic ties that bound Brittany's wrists bit into her skin, making her squirm. She found herself in a curious state of numbness, half twisted in her seat as Laura Andrews, the head of one of the most active Fulcrum cells, scribbled into her note pad, taking notes in that detached, passive way that reminded Brittany of the sinister Count Rugen from _The Princess Bride_.

Through Brittany sometimes found herself too confounded to even remember the meaning of words that sounded too alike, since she was a child, she had been able to quote the movie from beginning to end.

Countless hours had been spent with Santana, sighing over the sweetness of Westley, commenting on the supposed hotness of Buttercup, and arguing about whether or not the Rodents of Unusual Size actually existed. There had also been the incident where Brittany discovered that the charming and gorgeous Westley was also in _Saw_, and Netflixed it.

... that had been a mistake. Of massive, nightmarish proportions.

Those moments had taken place first in her childhood bedroom, on her frilly pink bed, and then, as the years passed and Santana and Brittany grew from best friends to girlfriends, on their Ikea couch.

When Santana came home from training, dressed impeccably in her uniform, Brittany had considered her lover her own Dread Pirate Roberts, and the memory now was a bittersweet one.

_I told you I would come,_ Westley would say, the moment he was unmasked, to his true love, Buttercup. _Why didn't you wait for me? _

_Well, _Buttercup would reply, always. _You were dead. _

_Death cannot stop true love,_ Westley answered, with his charming smile and glorious cheekbones. _All it can do is delay it for a while. _

Brittany would clutch onto Santana's thigh, enraptured by the moment.

"I will never doubt again," Brittany whispered, echoing Buttercup's words. Her heart heard her, thumping inside her with her faith.

"Excuse me?"

Her eyes lifted, brought out of the moment by Dr. Laura Andrews. "Do you like _The Princess Bride_?" she asked.

Dr. Andrews blinked, and suddenly glanced down, scribbling quickly. "Brittany," she said after a moment, removing her glasses and regarding her soberly. "You need to listen to me. What you have in your head isn't just a database. It's a tool. A very powerful tool. If you learned to use it correctly, it's limits would be inconceivable."

_You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means. _

"Brittany?"

"It's a computer," she rasped, licking her lips and resuming her stare outside of the window. "And there are programs that you can run." _Hear this now. I will always come for you._

"That's right," Dr. Andrews said, sounding surprised and pleased. "Do you understand what would happen if you learned to access the right program at precisely the right moment?"

"Yes," she breathed, and remembered the day Santana left for the mission she would never come back from. _This is true love. Do you think this happens every day?_

"Brittany, I don't want you to feel like you have anything to worry about. I'm not going to hurt you. Truthfully, I would rather the Intersect had been downloaded into someone with a little more training, but that doesn't mean you're completely useless. If you work with us, if you cooperate, both you and your girlfriend will live."

_We are men of action. Lies do not become us. _

"Brittany." Dr. Andrews sounded annoyed now. Brittany felt the touch of a hand pressed to her shoulder. "Are you listening?"

"Yes," she said, distant, eyes closing as she mentally probed her mind, inched toward the computer that had taken over her brain. "I'm a weapon."

_My Westley will come for me_, Buttercup would state, with all the faith in the world.

Brittany had always equated herself with Buttercup.

Maybe that was her problem.

Maybe she wasn't Buttercup.

Maybe, instead of sitting at home and letting Santana be the hero, Brittany was supposed to have been Westley.

_As you wish,_she thought, and smiled at Dr. Andrews.

* * *

><p>When Quinn's lips descended and proceeded to rob Rachel of any common sense, Rachel's first instinct was to simply kiss her back.<p>

In her own defense, she had been expecting to be executed at point-blank range by the woman with whom she had fallen in love, and that kind of emotional whiplash lent itself to moments of mental combustion. Rachel lost herself to muscle memory, and the quivering whisper of her heart.

It was only when, somewhere beyond her muddled mind, she felt a gasp against her mouth, and the strong sweep of a tongue against hers, did Rachel's mind catch up with her, and ask her quite ardently, what the hell she was doing.

By then, Quinn's palms had trailed along her back, drawing up and underneath her shirt with calloused fingers.

Quinn, who only seconds ago had seemed an angry, bitter stranger, was kissing her like she was starved for it. Any excitement, any hope, any affection that lingered within Rachel shriveled instantly.

She reacted with a surge of anger, shoving at Quinn's chest and delivering a stinging slap across the other woman's cheek.

"What the hell are you doing?" she panted, because it was ridiculous. Even for someone with her dramatic notions, it was ridiculous. "Is this some sort of game? Are you like a cat—do you toy with your victims before you kill them?"

Rachel's fingers were imprinted on Quinn's skin, and it was satisfying. Almost as satisfying as the dumbfounded expression that came over Quinn's face.

"Rachel," Quinn's voice was thick, scratchy. "That's not-"

"Why on earth would you think it was okay to kiss me?"

Quinn's expression quickly turned incredulous. "Would you prefer I kill you instead?"

The question, posed in that way, hardly seemed fair. "That's besides the point," she offered lamely.

"That's exactly the point," Quinn breathed, and although her gun was no longer pointing directly at Rachel's head, Rachel's furiously beating heart had a hard time recovering from the experience.

She could only watch in bewildered confusion when Quinn swiveled away from her, jerking open drawers and rummaging through Santana's things.

"You..." Swallowing, Rachel crossed her arms, afraid to even voice the question. "What are you doing?"

"This is a safe house, isn't it? Santana was planning to leave tonight. She has to have made plans. We can use them."

Quinn might as well have spoken Sanskrit. "Come again?"

"Fulcrum wants you dead. If they find out you're not, we're both dead. We need to go." Quinn seemed to find what she was looking for, because soon she was grabbing hold of a backpack that had been left near the door. Settling next to the bed, she began to stuff it with things that looked like passports and papers.

"Pardon?"

"If we leave now, we have a chance of getting on a flight—"

Rachel could only blame her near death experience, the trauma that had been inflicted on her by this exact person, for her inability to come to the right conclusions before this.

When it did come together, it happened very quickly, like points on a dry erase board. One, Quinn had experienced some sort of odd Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde transformation and as a result had decided not to kill her. Two, somehow, in the wake of this, Quinn had concluded that the next logical step would be to flee the country with her.

With the very things that Santana had been gathering to flee with Brittany.

It was all so surreal and confusing and simply abhorrent, Rachel forgot her anger and reverted to her own self-righteous indignation, because Quinn was _absolutely insane. _

"Have you lost your mind?" she burst, infuriated. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"

Quinn paused, looked at her with these wide, insecure eyes, like she was suddenly afraid. "Rachel, I realize right now you sort of hate me, but you need to trust me."

"No," she snapped, head shaking fervently, trembling in her emotion. "No, I'm not going to trust you, Quinn."

"Rachel..."

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, once again desperate to understand, even as her heart hammered with conflict, unsure what to think, what to believe.

Quinn let the backpack go in a harsh jerk. "Because I don't hate you," she rasped, an annoyed tint in her voice. "My feelings for you are actually very conflicted at the moment. And even though there were times in high school when I wanted badly to be able to kill you, I can't actually bring myself to do it. And I can't let anyone else do it either."

Rachel had long considered herself an expert in reading the human body. But what Quinn was implying, what she was saying, both with her words and the way she seemed to stare at her, she couldn't quite believe.

"Did you just admit to being in love with me?"

Had this been any other circumstance, Quinn's horribly flushed face might have actually been amusing. "I didn't say that."

"So what? You just feel guilty?"

Quinn literally twitched. Red-faced, she went back to filling the pack. "We need to go, Rachel."

"What about Brittany?" Rachel's eyes went wildly to the closed door. "And Santana?"

In the midst of pulling on the pack, Quinn faltered. "We can't help them now," she said, low and flat.

"Because shit happens?" she asked cruelly.

"Because Fulcrum has them," Quinn snapped. "And they're as good as dead. And so are we if we don't get out of here. Now."

The hypocrisy was astounding. "Then you might as well kill me, Quinn, because I'm never going to go anywhere with you. Not when you just signed Santana and Brittany's death sentence." Misery overwhelmed her. Because of this woman, because of an email and a phone call and some deep issues inside of Quinn, Brittany and Santana—

"Rachel, I'm not saying I don't care, okay? I'm just saying..."

Not, not because of Quinn. Because of her. Because once again, Rachel had believed a lie. Sucking in a choked breath, Rachel spied the Beretta that Quinn had so casually kicked at.

"What are you doing?"Quinn asked sharply.

Rachel handled the gun, tested the weight of it. "I played a cop once," she said matter-of-factly. "The show wasn't ever picked up, but I learned how to shoot a gun."

"Rachel, stop it-"Rising off the bed, Quinn walked quickly in her direction. Even though she trembled, even though Rachel couldn't see straight, she knew enough to unlock the safety, and pointed it in her direction.

Without hesitation, Quinn grabbed hold of the barrel, wrenching it out of her hands. "Are you crazy?" she hissed.

Strong fingers wrapped around her wrists, keeping Rachel from trying to reach for the gun. "Give it back," she demanded, but Quinn only held her tighter, maneuvering her so that Rachel was suddenly pressed back against her, trapped tight in Quinn's strong hold.

"Stop it," Quinn rasped, hand pressed against her shoulder, mouth brushing hotly against Rachel's ear. "Calm down."

Quinn was too strong. She held her tightly, in this cruel mocking embrace. Rachel jerked, huffing in frustration. "If you won't save them, I will."

"You will," Quinn repeated, incredulous and almost bemused. "You. Really? How. You don't know where they're going. You can't even sight a gun properly. You'll be dead before you even leave the building."

"I don't care!" she insisted, and she didn't. Not anymore. The fear had faded away rapidly, and in its place was just sheer desperation to make things right, or die trying. "You said I'm as good as dead anyway."

The gun clattered to the floor. Quinn wouldn't let her go. She held onto her, so tightly, keeping Rachel from moving. Rachel could feel the thumping beat of her heartbeat, pounding into her back.

"Not if I tranq you and smuggle you out of the country."

A wave of fresh emotion beat into her, and Rachel found herself more furious than before. "Why?" she snapped, eyes flashing, twisting in Quinn's embrace to glare at the other woman. "Why do you care so much?" Quinn's mouth pressed flat. She didn't say a word. "If you love me," Rachel whispered furiously, "If you even think you love me, then you should know something, Quinn. If Brittany and Santana die, I won't ever forgive you. I've never hated anyone in my life, but I'll hate you." Behind her, she felt and heard a ragged gasp, Quinn's only indication that she heard her. "We caused this," Rachel demanded. "You and me."

She felt the warmth of Quinn. The soft flutter of breath that slipped past her ear. The way Quinn tilted her forehead against Rachel's hair, as if Quinn was breathing her in.

Rachel's heart seized, trembled, and she closed her eyes against it, because this was a killer.

And this was Quinn.

And somehow it was just so hard and so easy to believe they were the exact same person.

"Are you emotionally blackmailing me?"

Quinn's question was breathless with disbelief, but there was something else in there too, some sort of hope, that made Rachel take in a ragged, soldiering breath.

"Are you saying you're actually in love with me?"

Quinn's hands, braced against her biceps, smoothed against her. "Are you saying you actually believe me?"

"Are you willing to prove it?"

The wait was agonizing. One second. Then two.

"You're going to get us killed."

Rachel was suddenly set free. Behind her, Quinn bent, grabbing hold of Santana's backpack and heading for the door.

"Let's go."

Had Rachel been handed this twist in a script, she would understand it. Life was meant to be dramatic, at least on television.

But this was real life, and never would Rachel have ever imagined being able to accept the idea that Quinn really, truly had fallen for her. Not after what she had been proven capable of.

It was sappy and schlocky, and maybe a younger, more naïve Rachel would believe that her love had reminded Quinn of who she truly wanted to be, that she had tamed a killer, and that was why Quinn was ready and willing to fight to give Brittany and Santana the same chance she had wanted to give Rachel and herself.

But this Rachel was still stinging in the face of her own guilt, the reminder that her own naïve willingness to believe had painted a death sentence on Santana and Brittany's head, and Quinn and every one of her beautiful lies had been the reason for it.

"I don't believe you," she tossed out. Quinn's steps faltered to a stop. Blonde hair whirled as she glanced back at Rachel, and in that beautiful, devastating look, Rachel found her true heartbreak.

Between them both was a chasm of mistrust and lies.

"I know," Quinn said, after a moment. "That's okay." The grimace that formed was a very accurate mimic of the girl she had been in high school. "I can hardly believe it myself."

That, at least, sounded like Quinn.

* * *

><p>"Can you believe this shit?"<p>

The pain that exploded when something smacked hard against her kidney brought Santana out of her drug-induced stupor immediately. Face down against the sweaty interior of the leather backseat, she cried out, but the sound was muffled by the leather.

It was a rude awakening, and Santana could focus on nothing else but breathing in and out, riding out the spasm and the nausea that came from the drug, building in her stomach and threatening to project.

"Andrews wants to turn her? She killed Fuller!"

"In her defense, Fuller was an ass."

Voices floated around her like fog, and as awareness came, so did the rest of the discomfort. Her muscles cramped, her body stiffened, and her mind began to scream for Brittany.

"Did the asshole deserve to die?"

"Don't we all?"

"What are you now, a philosopher?"

"I'm just saying, Andrews says she was in the program. If Andrews can turn the Intersect, this one might fall in line. And that's good for us."

Training battled against instinct and her heart. Though the words were being said, they took time to be absorbed, and it was only after Santana's eyes opened, then closed again, that she realized that the conversation between the two guns meant that Brittany was very much alive.

The relief faded quickly as she was reminded of the hopelessness of their plight.

She was sprawled against the seat, hogtied like an animal. With her legs and arms bound tight and her face sticky with the drool that had collected on the seat, Santana had to battle the urge to try and stretch her cramping muscles.

To move even slightly would alert the goons that she was awake, and she needed them to talk.

A heavy hand landed suddenly on her ass, palming liberally.

Gritting her teeth, Santana didn't move.

"What'd they have over there, a hot lesbian breeding program?"

"You don't see me complaining."

"There's something wrong with the world when Quinn and this chick get better tail than I do."

"They're hotter than you, Ramos."

"You don't gotta rub it in."

They were driving at a steady pace, at a high speed, which indicated that wherever they were going, they had reached a highway.

She wanted badly to try and break the fingers of the one who was still appreciating her ass in the rudest way possible.

She didn't. She listened instead, placing each agent—the one beside her, the one in front, and the silent driver, who gave himself away with a cough and a sniffle.

So much of Santana's training had been on how to disassociate—how to withstand torture without giving information, how to lose yourself to another world no matter what the present was beating into you.

To do that now was impossible. The image of Brittany burned into her skull, and it meant living in the present, getting through this, getting out alive.

Santana had already died for Brittany once. She had been resurrected, reborn in Brittany's arms, and in that moment, she had made Brittany another promise: that she would not leave her.

Santana wasn't an immortal, but she was a damn stubborn bitch, and that was one promise she fully intended to keep.

Muscles tensed, she waited, pulling in her knees, feigning sleep, ready for her attack, until the distraction of another engine, loud and getting closer, caught her focus.

"What the hell? Do you see that?"

"What?"

"Coming up behind us! Holy fuc-"

Santana had no time to brace for it when it happened.

The crash was a cacophony of over-stimulation—the scream and crunch of metal, the surge of force that crumpled her against the door, the screech of tires.

Santana grabbed hold of the belt behind her, head ducking as the shots came after, shattering glass.

Another crash. The car jerked, skidded, and then it tipped, shoving the agent next to her hard against her back, smashing her fingers against the gun he carried.

Blindly, she grabbed hold of it, fumbled, and pulled the trigger.

He slumped against her, seeping warm sticky blood onto her, but Santana didn't waste time. Using him as a shield from the other distracted agents, she kicked at the door, snaking out of the opening.

Two shots came blasting, and then no one followed her out.

With scrapes and cuts spread across her body, and ties that cut into her circulation, Santana could only flop on the ground like a snake, losing her gun in the process.

"Santana!" Her unseen savior fell down beside her, poking at her back. "Oh, God. I think she's been shot."

It was a voice that she would know anywhere, but never had she expected to hear it here. "Rachel?" she breathed, head jerking back to see that it truly was Rachel fucking Berry, ready to sob over her like she were auditioning for some Southern war movie. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Santana, I'm so sorry!" Rachel whispered, tears in her eyes and a trembling frown on her face. "I'm so sorry I didn't believe you. And I'm sorry that I caused this. I'm going to make this right. I promise."

Winded and in a mild sort of shock, Santana wasn't sure what to make of it at all. "Can you start by cutting these fucking ties off of me?"

"Okay, now this is just pathetic." Shoes kicked dust into her face, making her choke. "Bad Ass Santana Lopez, flopping on the ground like a fish."

Quinn. Santana's eyes narrowed in fury, neck straining as she craned her head up to regard the other woman. "You fucking bitch," she whispered, jerking hard against the ground. "I should have shot you when I had the chance."

Quinn's smug smirk faltered. "Look, I'm here to help you."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Quinn, just help me!" Rachel's hands were still all over her, tugging at the ties, inadvertently cutting them deeper into her skin. "She's been shot!"

"I'm not shot," she managed, gritting her teeth as her muscles cramped. "That's another guy's blood."

A knee dug into the small of her back, pinning her down. The blade of a knife slipped between her hands, jerking sharply, springing them free.

Santana's palms flattened against the dirt, as she closed her eyes in relief, letting them work on her feet.

"We don't have much time," she heard dimly, above the pounding and ringing in her head.

The moment the ties that bound her legs were severed, Santana kicked hard, digging her boot into Quinn's gut.

She rolled up, slamming her elbow hard into the face of the other woman, and pinned Quinn hard on the ground with a forearm crushing into her esophagus.

"Santana!"

It was too much. Too much anger, too much rage, too much blame to be placed on this one woman, who struggled underneath her, hips rising and face turning red with the effort.

"Santana!" She could dimly feel Rachel clawing at her, trying to pull her away. "Santana, stop!"

"I'll stop when she's dead!" she snapped, shoving Rachel away with a well-timed push.

Below her, Quinn struggled for breath. Her legs flailed ineffectually. "Kill me then," she eeked out. "You think you're so much better than me?"

Santana pushed harder, causing Quinn to gurgle and wheeze.

"Santana, we're here to help you!"

"HOW?" Santana snapped, head jerking to glare at Rachel. "How the hell did either of you help me? By sending Brittany the Intersect? By trying to kidnap her? By fucking her over completely?"

In her emotion, she made a crucial mistake. She gave Quinn half a second.

That was all Quinn needed to wrench away her thumb and smash a fist hard into the bridge of her nose.

It blinded her, causing her eyes to tear and her hands to loosen, giving Quinn enough time to manipulate a leg between them and buck up, rolling them over.

Santana landed hard on her back, and Quinn followed, straddling her and pressing the barrel of a gun underneath her chin.

Breathing hard, Santana didn't move.

"Quinn!"

"Shut up, Rachel!" Quinn snapped, but her eyes stayed locked on Santana's. "Look," she whispered, voice raspy from the abuse Santana had inflicted on her throat. "Hate me, kill me, whatever. I know I fucked you over. I know it makes me an ass. You have every right to want me dead, but you and I both know that if you want half a chance in hell of getting Brittany away from that Fulcrum cell, you'll need me to do it."

It was logic, and not logic that Santana wanted to accept, not when every part of her shook with absolute hate.

"Santana, please." Rachel stood beside them and wrung her hands helplessly like some damsel. "I'm so sorry for what happened. I am. But we want to help you save Brittany."

The heavy weight of Quinn bore down on her. The muzzle of a gun, burning hot against her skin, was proof that Quinn had used it, not against her but against the men who had kept Santana captive.

"Why would you help me?" she asked, careful and quiet, ever conscious of the steel pressed warningly, poised to fire.

An odd expression floated over Quinn's face. "You don't want to know," she rasped.

"Actually," she hissed. "I do."

"Santana, we don't have time-"

"Make the fucking time."

Quinn literally twitched in her frustration, shoulders rising and falling, looking like some disgruntled fembot. "Brittany doesn't deserve this," she said finally, grinding her teeth with the admission. "And neither does Rachel."

It was the way she said Rachel's name that struck Santana, brought her out of the fog of mistrust. "Don't tell me she neutered you."

The hand underneath her chin shifted, shoving the metal deeper against her skin. "Do you want me to use this?" Quinn hissed. The annoyance was palpable, and it was damning.

God, Santana would have had such a field day with this in high school.

Quinn Fabray, brought to her knees by Rachel fucking Berry.

The suspicion, the hate, it was all still there, but the flash of what she had seen in Quinn's eyes was something that was hauntingly familiar.

"Fine," she breathed. She let her body relax, no longer fighting Quinn.

Quinn stared at her, tested her resolve. Santana let her.

After a moment, Quinn slowly removed the gun from its kill position against her throat, and lifted off of her.

* * *

><p>The mood inside Quinn's car was stifling and tense, and with good reason.<p>

Rachel and Brittany had never been close in high school. Despite Glee Club, the cliques that ruled McKinley High had put them in different worlds, and although there were moments of friendliness, Brittany had more often than not followed Santana and Quinn's lead when it came to the easy game of bullying Rachel Berry.

To think they had come from that to where they were now, the three of them in Quinn's sports car, heading to an undisclosed Fulcrum cell hideout to save Brittany's life and in the process quite possibly lose their own, was sobering.

Rachel's heart thumped with the uncertainty of it, fear making her skin prickle and guilt constricting her breath.

Quinn's eyes caught her own in the rearview mirror. With no energy to process the complication of whatever it was that fell between them, Rachel looked away.

In the passenger seat, Santana shifted, a grimace of pain etched on her face and nothing else.

Even now, it seemed surreal, to look at her and not think of her as a ghost.

Rachel spoke before she could stop herself. "Santana." Fingers smoothing against her seatbelt, Rachel regarded the other woman. "Why did you do it?" Quinn's fingers tightened against the steering wheel, squeaking against the leather.

Santana didn't move, gave no indication she heard her.

"It's not that I'm judging you," Rachel continued softly, carefully. "It's just that... It's hard to imagine ..."

"Rachel." Quinn's tone was deep with warning.

"I'm just trying to-"

"Shut up, Rachel!" The outburst came from Santana, who shifted in her seat and shot her such a look of rage that Rachel was struck speechless. "Just shut up. Just keep your traitor mouth shut."

"Santana-"

"No," Santana snapped, shooting Quinn a stormy, withering glance before glaring back at Rachel. "You know what? Her, I can understand. Quinn's always been a bitch. But you... why the hell are you such a gullible idiot?"

In the face of Santana's anger, Rachel felt small and stupid. There was not one thing she could say in her own defense. "Santana," she began thickly, eyes pleading in supplication. "I'm sorry."

"I don't care." Santana's loss and grief was painted on her face. She looked suddenly exhausted. "Saying 'I'm sorry' doesn't fucking turn back time."

"Santana, shut the hell up!"

"No, Quinn..." Rachel couldn't bear to be defended. Not in this. "She's absolutely right." Exhaling unsteadily, she nodded to Santana, moist eyes meeting hers in quiet understanding. "There's just some things you can't apologize for. There are things you can't take back, no matter what."

Like faking a death, no matter what the intentions. Like betraying a friend's trust, wanting to believe in a story instead of the truth.

Like seducing a friend with every intention of breaking their heart.

In this car, there were no heroes.

At this point, simple apologies or explanations would never be enough. To expect forgiveness was beyond any of them at the moment.

And there wasn't time for it, either.

Santana must have understood that, because there was no response to Rachel's declaration.

The car sped down the highway, to Brittany, and their mutual salvation.

* * *

><p>Sometime after they pulled into the warehouse, Brittany, who had been running The Princess Bride in her head and playing images of Santana in Buttercup's white, flowy princess gown, stopped being afraid.<p>

The hysteria had oddly settled, and in it's place was a curious sort of determination, as she sifted and sorted in her brain, picking at bits and parts of the new invasion called the Intersect like she would poke through a malfunctioning hard drive.

"Do you think I can get these to come off?" Brittany asked, when Dr. Andrews entered the room she had been brought into. Her voice was soft, without inflection. "They're cutting my circulation." Dr. Andrews, who wore and an odd, closed expression, considered the question, and after a moment, nodded.

"Of course, Brittany." The man behind her stepped forward, and closed his hands around her wrists, scraping her skin with a pocket knife, cutting her free from the punishing plastic ties.

Brittany hissed, rubbing at her raw wrists thankfully.

"Brittany?" Dr. Andrews settled into the chair across from her, crossing her feet at her ankles, looking like some sort of shrink. "What are you thinking about?"

"What do you mean?" she asked. She traced her fingertip across the countertop of the table she had been made to sit at, forming letters and symbols that she wasn't sure made any sense.

"You're obviously not paying attention to me."

She offered an apologetic smile. "What you were saying was kind of confusing," she admitted, and glanced toward the door. "When can I see Santana?"

Dr. Andrews's lips pressed firmly together. "When I say so," she said, quietly and softly. "Did you know that I recruited your friend Quinn?"

The pain caused by the name was still fresh. It reminded Brittany of a Quinn that no longer existed, who wore a red and white Cheerios uniform and not a gun. "She's not my friend," she said pointedly. "Not anymore."

Dr. Andrews nodded her assent. "I guess under the circumstances she wouldn't be." She watched quietly as Brittany continued to draw her imaginary lines. "I told her when I first picked her that she had a chance to make a difference, be a hero."

Brittany paused. "But you're the bad guys."

The smile became strained. "That depends on how you look at it, Brittany. I told her that too."

"I guess." Brittany sighed restlessly and massaged at the pulsing, sore skin around her wrist. "Like in the movie _The Princess Bride_. The dread Pirate Roberts is a bad guy, you think, but it turns out Prince Humperdink is the real bad guy."

Dr. Andrews smiled, pleased. "Exactly, Brittany. This government is Prince Humperdink, and we're just like the pirate Roberts. Trying to right some wrongs."

"Like Robin Hood."

Once again, the smile shifted, like Dr. Andrews didn't quite know what to do with that. "In a manner of speaking," she allowed. "That's why you're so important. If we can use what we have in your head, study it, then Prince Humperdink wouldn't stand a chance."

Brittany stared at the tabletop. She imagined the symbols and shapes from earlier, saw them written in her own mind, neon and clear as day. "Did you know that when Santana was recruited into the army, she didn't want to go?" Dr. Andrews bit in a sigh, but Brittany simply shrugged. "She did it because I wanted her to. She was my hero," she confessed, and smiled bitterly at the memory. "I thought maybe it would be awesome if she could be everyone else's hero too."

"Santana is a hero, Brittany. She's just been working for the wrong team, that's all." Dr. Andrew's pen ticked on the notepad. "Maybe you could change her mind."

The sound of the doorknob turning caught her attention.

Let into the room by another man in a dark suit, with blood crusted on her cheek and dirty, ruined clothes, was Santana.

Brittany reacted immediately, jerking up in her chair. A heavy hand slammed on her shoulder, and immediately shoved her back down.

"Brittany-"

When Santana moved, the man who brought her in jabbed his fist hard into the small of her back, causing a hiss of pain and an expression of anguish, as Santana's knees buckled.

Brittany's hands fisted hard against the tabletop.

"Brittany," Santana wheezed. "You don't have to listen to her, okay?"

Dr. Andrews' expression did not change at all. "Your Santana hasn't been very cooperative, Brittany. She caused a wreck that killed three of my agents. If it wasn't for Quinn catching up with her, we might have lost her completely. That would have been very bad for both of you."

Very bad. Brittany wasn't sure what could be worse than the situation they were in now, with this dirty, bloody, captive Santana, who stared at her with every apology in the world unspoken.

"Brittany, understand something. I'm being nicer than I need to be. Not everyone in my group shares my patience for these sort of things, but I find that results are generally easier to attain if I don't have to torture them out of you."

Santana looked absolutely haunted; just like she did that day in the Volkswagon, when she spread a green folder over her lap and admitted to Brittany that she was scared.

Brittany had gotten that look to go away. She was a master at it, and the urge to do so now, to assure them both that it was all going to be okay, caused her to paste a trembling smile on her face for her resurrected lover, who died for her once and probably thought she was going to have to do it again.

"Brittany?" Dr. Andrews broke into her thoughts. "What are you thinking?"

Brittany's head lifted, but her eyes were only for Santana.

"I'm thinking," she began, slowly and carefully, "that I lost you once and it nearly killed me. I could not bear it if it happened again. Not if I can save you."

And maybe they really were the lucky ones, she and Santana, who had grown up together, learned what it meant to love each other, what it meant to not be afraid.

Because it meant she could quote something as simple and sincere as The Princess Bride and immediately see the recognition in Santana's slow, stunned smile.

"As you wish," Santana replied, tone thick and full of meaning. She made Brittany's heart sing.

She was going to marry her.

"Brittany." Dr. Andrews sounded annoyed. Disturbed.

Quietly, Brittany straightened in her chair and turned her attention to Dr. Andrews, who had recruited Quinn and taught her that there was no such thing as good and evil, love and loyalty. "One time, Santana and I went to the dentist and had a hallucination. Together."

Dr. Andrew's brow furrowed. "Pardon?"

"It didn't really make sense," Brittany admitted, shrugging in defeat. "But it was kind of awesome, because I got to be Britney Spears and she got to be Madonna, and we got to dance together, even in our dreams."

Dr. Andrew's dropped her pen. "Brittany-"

"When she died, I stopped dancing." She could hear an audible sigh, ragged and pained, coming from Santana. Brittany didn't look. She kept her focus on Dr. Andrews, who looked confused and intrigued.

Brittany bet she had never met an Intersect like her before.

It was just what Brittany wanted.

"Were you good at it?" Dr. Andrews asked, apparently deciding it was best to simply indulge her.

"I was amazing," she admitted, a proud grin floating onto her mouth. "A lot of things confuse me, but that never did. I could move, you know, no matter what the music, and when I think about it, life is a lot like dancing."

Andrews considered that. Her smile was profound. "You're absolutely right, Brittany. Just like dancing, you make a choice to move through life like you would flow through a beat."

Brittany nodded. "I think that's why I stopped." She placed her palm against the table, and felt the smooth, cool surface underneath it. Behind her, an agent snickered. Out of the corner of her eye, Brittany could see Santana's immediate glare, ready and waiting to deck him for daring to make fun of her. It warmed her, even in this cold room. "Because dancing is all about moving forward with the rhythm, going with the flow. I didn't want to move forward. Not without Santana."

"Brittany," Dr. Andrews placed the note pad on the table, losing patience. "What are you trying to tell me?"

To Santana, she smiled, nodding as she replied, "I'm telling you, that I think I might be ready to dance again."

And she did. Her eyes closed, and she flowed through the symbols she had worked out so carefully on the tabletop, until the programs in her brain whizzed by and she had executed the correct one.

Instinct took over. Her hand jerked out, smashed a fist into the snickering agent's groin. As he doubled over, she grabbed hold of his tie, dragging him against her, feeling the bullets of the other agent pound into him, as she slid her hand around the handle of the gun in his holster and pulled it out, double tapping and downing the other agent who had just shot at her.

She stood and swiveled, a perfect pirouette that leveled the gun at Dr. Laura Andrews.

The older woman looked absolutely stunned, because while she had done that, Santana had been a bad ass. The agent that had held her so brutally was unconscious on the ground, and Santana held his own gun to Dr. Andrew's temple, keeping her still.

The look Santana was giving her was absolutely astounded, and kind of turned on.

It was... kind of awesome.

"I know that people don't think much of me," Brittany explained, breathing hard, in and out, as the Intersect whirred within her, her own personal database. "But I know how to dance. I know how to love. And I know the difference between right and wrong. You're under arrest. And stuff," she added, frowning as she realized she didn't quite know how the rest of it went.

"We'll save all that for later," was Santana's sweet assurance, as she produced a pair of handcuffs and bound Dr. Andrews. Brittany waited until she heard the snap of the metal before she placed the gun on the table.

This was real life. Brittany wasn't dreaming. In this reality, Santana was a secret agent, and she had gone through heaven and hell to be with her now, standing in a room with Dr. Laura Andrews, the head of one of Fulcrum's most dangerous and active terrorist cells.

A silly, ridiculous smile grew on her face, as the adrenaline caught up with her, watching as Santana rounded the table, coming straight for her, and into her arms.

And this was real life too, the feel of Santana, her best friend, her lover, and maybe even her soulmate, clinging tightly to her, touching her everywhere, like Santana couldn't get enough.

Brittany kissed her, plundered her lips in grateful celebration, winding fingers through dirty, sweaty hair and rubbing crusted blood off Santana's cheek.

"Holy fuck, baby," Santana breathed, pulling back to stare at her like Brittany was amazing. "What the fuck was that?"

"The Intersect," Brittany answered. She considered what had just happened, and found herself shrugging, as she confessed, "I think I'm good at it."

Brittany knew that sometimes she said things that confused a lot of people, but the look on Santana's face wasn't like the expressions she had always seen. Santana looked astounded, but with it was some beautiful kind of excitement, like she was seeing Brittany for the first time, and falling more in love with her than ever before.

When Santana kissed her, it felt like they were back in high school, sneaking under Mr. Schue's window for a quick, passionate hook up before class.

"I'll totally be your hot army wife," Santana whispered against her lips. "If you want me to be."

Heart singing with the music only they could hear, Brittany found herself laughing. "Bitch," she hissed right back. "You better be."

* * *

><p>In a room with an unconscious agent and Rachel Berry, Quinn Fabray wanted to feel detached as she watched the events unfold through a one way mirror. Santana and Brittany frenched like teenagers, high on life and the joy of surviving, forgetting in the process that they were still in the presence of a bunch of bleeding and unconscious Fulcrum agents, and Dr. Andrews herself, who appeared to be in a mild form of shock.<p>

She didn't feel detached. What filled her now was anything but detachment. She was genuinely relieved, to the point of trembling with it.

It unnerved her. "Well," she managed. "It's nice to see they're still willing to do it everywhere."

Beside her, Rachel was all shining eyes and sincere smiles. "I think it's beautiful," she declared, and it was so open and honest, Quinn felt suddenly breathless.

The sheer hatred that had been so prevalent in Rachel ever since she had discovered Quinn's true allegiances, the disgust that had stung so much, had faded immeasurably. In its place was a grown Rachel Berry, with that same joy, that same heart.

Quinn wanted so badly to hope it meant forgiveness. "God," she sighed, tamping down the embarrassing, lovesick feelings, and focused instead on the reality of the situation. "Rachel, nothing's changed. Brittany still has the Intersect in her head. And what's worse, she knows how to use it."

"But you said that the secret was contained. It was just this cell that had the information."

Her answering smile was grim. "And what about the NSA?" she asked. Brittany and Santana continued their highly inappropriate make-out session in the middle of a Fulcrum interrogation room, forgetting them, forgetting the world. "They know it was stolen." There wasn't a point in mentioning who it was who had stolen it to begin with. "They're looking for Santana. And if she runs, it'll be with Brittany. The NSA isn't just going to let them go."

There was no easy solution. No happily ever after.

Brittany had never read the book the movie _The Princess Bride_ was based on. The movie was portrayed as a romantic fable, perpetuating the belief that true love reigned above all.

The book itself was a political commentary that ended ambiguously, in which Westley and Buttercup were on the run, and Prince Humperdink's men edged ever closer.

There were no happy endings, just the universal control of the establishment.

Fabric shifted against her. Quinn's quiet awareness of Rachel was intimidating in its power. "What about you?"

"What about me?" she whispered, eyes deliberately locked on her own star-crossed lover.

"You betrayed Fulcrum to save them."

The urge to laugh morbidly was almost overpowering. "Yeah," she breathed, and considered the situation she found herself in. "That was kind of stupid."

Rachel Berry always had inspired her to levels of stupidity previously unknown to mankind.

"Are you going to run?"

Quinn crossed her arms, considering her options. A crazy, inconceivable choice lay before her.

Beside her there was Rachel; beautiful, insane Rachel who kissed her like there was no one else in the world, who stood with her in this lonely room and looked at her like she knew her.

The thought of running anywhere without her seemed suddenly unbearable.

Taking a breath, Quinn did not wait to think about the madness of the situation. "If I do," she began lighter and more casual than she felt. "Would you come with me?"

Quinn had never been a talker. When she spoke, even in high school, she had been to the point. Maybe that was why Rachel didn't move. Her eyes stayed locked on hers, searching Quinn's face, as if she had misinterpreted the question and was waiting for the punchline.

There was none.

Rachel broke the gaze with a ragged sigh, and turned beside her, attention back on Brittany and Santana.

"It's been a very long day," she breathed, sounding exhausted.

Quinn felt the ache down to her bones.

"Yeah," she agreed, her heart in an odd, scary place. "It has."

* * *

><p>Though Santana knew that Major Matthews dealt with modern bioweapons and as a result, had a PHD in all things unexpected and weird, she had a grim feeling that what she related to the Major was probably one of the oddest debriefings that the Major had ever heard.<p>

It showed in the Major's face, from the tick of her jaw, to the way she stared at Santana like she was looking at the world's most confusing Sudoku puzzle.

"Okay," she said finally, a full minute after Santana had finished speaking. "Let me see if I can clearly summarize what you've just told me. You did indeed track down the intersect. However, although it was sent to the soap actress, it was actually downloaded into a woman named Brittany S. Pierce, who is a Buy More employee, working in the Nerd Herd division, and coincidentally, your ex-fiance."

She waited for confirmation. Santana felt as timid as she felt in high school, when she was forced to sit across the desk from Sue Sylvester, and listen to her abusive and frightening diatribes. She nodded.

"In the meantime, Quinn Fabray, who you beat out for cheerleading captain and soloist in Glee Club," she drawled, not bothering to hide her sarcasm, "had a sudden change of heart, and not only helped you to reaquire the Asset, but also to bring down the very Fulcrum cell she belonged to, in the process apprehending Laura Andrews."

Santana crossed her arms, and said with as much of a straight face as she could muster, "She'd like to defect, Major."

"Of course she would," Major Matthews said dismissively. "On top of all this, you somehow thought it would be a brilliant idea to not only reveal your true identity to your little Glee Club, but also marry the Asset, who is now the Intersect."

Santana wondered if it would be at all inappropriate to offer the Major a drink. "Yes, Major."

Major Matthews opened her mouth, and, when she could think of nothing to say, closed it again.

Common sense told Santana that she should have been scared. She should have been terrified, because this was the NSA, not high school, and there were things worse than death when it came to consequences if one stepped out of line.

But she wouldn't regret her actions. Not now.

Her marriage to Brittany had not been perfect. Far from it. It hadn't taken place on a little island in Greece, but in a dingy wedding chapel near LAX. Instead of Brittany's dream officiator (P!NK), Elvis had presided over the ceremony, and Santana's best man had been a _woman _who had most recently tried to kill her, kidnapped her fiancé, and who clearly did not want to be there.

The only reason Santana had even agreed to that was because of the sheer look of panic on Quinn's face when Rachel had suggested it.

The joy of torture was in the little things.

There was so much in Santana's life that had been put in control of others, but there was a promise that Santana had made that she would keep, even if it meant treason.

She married Brittany because she could. Because Brittany wanted to marry her. Because since she was a child she had wanted to be Brittany's boyfriend, and had spent eight years trying to become the person that she thought Brittany deserved.

That person was a stranger named Molly Chambers, who had left Brittany behind in order to save her life.

That wasn't an option anymore.

"I considered running," she said, speaking into the silence, catching hold of Major Matthew's tired gaze. "Disappearing with Brittany when I realized what had happened."

Matthews quietly took that in. "And why didn't you?"

"Because the world still needs to be saved. Brittany may be safe from Fulcrum for now, but if I took her away, that would mean the government would have lost the Intersect, and we need her now, more than ever. I'm still a soldier, Major Matthews, and I believe Brittany has the character and attitude to take the great responsibility she has been given and excel at it."

"Your new wife is a Nerd Herder."

Santana pressed her lips together in a grim smile. "Not anymore."

The Major settled against her chair, drumming her fingers pointedly against the leather arms against her chair, creating a static beat of little thumps. "Tell me, Lieutenant. What would you do in my situation? Given the information you have just given me?"

Santana considered the odds, the ramifications of her actions. "I would probably have me arrested for treason," she admitted. "And lock my wife into a lab somewhere, to be studied and quarantined like an animal."

Matthew's raised a brow. "But you don't think I should do that."

"I think it would insanely stupid to do so."

The thumping stopped. "Why?" she asked, a harsh snap in her voice. "Because there's only one stupid person in this room and I'm pretty damn sure that it's not me."

There had been so many times when Santana considered herself weak, and although there were many things she still did not know about herself, she knew for a fact that Brittany herself had always been her greatest strength, and her greatest vulnerability.

It was this vulnerability, she decided, that had kept her from turning out just like Quinn, who had been as ruthless and callous to friends as she had been to enemies.

Brittany was her heart. In that, Santana found her hope.

She could have tried to explain all that to Major Matthews.

But she knew the Army wasn't interested.

In lieu of Santana's mushy diatribes, she simply sat back and crossed her legs, every inch the agent that was trained to protect the nation at all costs. "I know from experience, we make a pretty bad ass team," she explained, with all the certainty in the world. "The world won't see us coming."

* * *

><p>Stripped of her power, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, Dr. Andrews looked nothing like the feared, wanted woman who had headed one of the most active Fulcrum cells in the country.<p>

She just looked old.

The sight was sobering to Quinn, who had both feared and respected this woman as her own personal mentor, since her freshman year in college.

When she opened the door and stepped inside the interrogation room, Dr. Andrews lifted her head and smirked, a remnant of that pride that had been so intimidating before.

"There better be a good reason for this," Andrews said, speaking first, as usual, sharp eyes watching as Quinn settled across the table. "Because I can't imagine you would strip Fulcrum of its greatest asset and most promising cell over a misplaced loyalty."

Quinn took her time with her response. "If I told you the reason, you wouldn't understand it," she said finally. "There's no point in trying to explain it to you."

Andrews' glare narrowed. She tangled wrinkled hands haughtily in front of her.

Quinn's look was frank. "All you need to know is that I've brokered a deal for immunity."

Thin lips pressed together in disgust. "You've become a traitor," she surmised. "You'll be dead in a week."

"Actually, I was the traitor before," Quinn corrected softly. "And the person who will be dead in a week is you. The NSA is seeking an execution, and no one is contesting them." She let the information settle, waited for Laura Andrews to come to terms with her own mortality. "Unless you agree to work with us. Provide us with information, I may be able to overturn your sentence. You can do the right thing."

Laura's fingers twitched, a tick Quinn knew well. She was disgusted. "You're a disappointment, Quinn. When I recruited you, I thought I had found a kindred spirit. Someone who understood that ethics lie in the action, not morality."

And there it was, Quinn's fabulous mantra. What had emotionally stunted her, a lust for power, and a twisted mentality that as long as she got what wanted, the consequences meant nothing.

"The ends justify the means?" she asked, mouth quirking in a cruel grimace. "Then let me tell you what my ends are, Dr. Andrews." Leaning forward, she lost her smirk, and offered instead a dangerous, furious glare. "The end I want doesn't involve sitting alone in a cell on death row, with no one to stand up for me but an emotionally stunted Fulcrum Agent who really doesn't care. The end I want involves a woman. Actually three of them, unique and special and who make this world a much better place than anything Fulcrum could manage. The end I want involves love, and I may die for it in a week, or three, or forty years, but at least this way, when I do, I know there will be someone there - to miss me, to die for me, to love me." Overwhelmed, Quinn paused, taking a moment to let the heat burn off her face, her heart to stop aching. When she turned back to Andrews, she saw a blank face, with nothing there for her to mourn. "For all your theories, and your lust for power, your ethics and your morality mean nothing." Getting to her feet, Quinn looked down on her former mentor.

For an instant, all she felt, was pity. "This is your end, Dr. Andrews," she said, as coldly as the woman she learned from. "Enjoy it while you can."


	8. Chapter 7

**TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress  
>AUTHOR: Misty Flores<strong>

**PART SEVEN**

_Made a wrong turn  
>Once or twice<br>Dug my way out  
>Blood and fire<br>Bad decisions  
>That's alright<br>Welcome to my silly life_  
>-'Fucking Perfect', P!NK<p>

* * *

><p>If Brittany closed her eyes, and then opened them again, she could look at herself in the mirror and swear that nothing had changed.<p>

Her Buy More uniform, pressed and cleaned, still fit her like it would an attractive tomboy. Her hair, styled and loose, fell over her shoulders in blonde waves, and she still had her Nerd Herd ID badge, affixed to her lapel.

If Brittany wanted to make believe, even for a moment, that she had never been sent an email, that Santana was still dead, she could.

"Hey." Behind her, Rachel stood in the doorway. Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair was sloppily piled on top of her head, both clear signs that she was on her way to work, ready to sit in make up and have her hair styled in that tousled, sexy way that defined her character.

"Hi," she said, and turned back to the mirror, studying her bare hands, the look in her eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to imagine," she answered, "What it would be like to still be me."

Rachel came forward to stand by her, offering a look of confusion and bemused affection. "You're not you?"

"I mean the Brittany from before," she answered, and pressed her hands to her cheeks, letting them cool the skin. "The Brittany that isn't the Intersect."

Brittany glanced towards the closed bathroom door. Muted music floated from just beyond it, and it had a harder, pop beat that Santana used as an alternative to coffee.

Through the mirror, she watched Rachel, saw the possibility flit through her mind. "Would you want to be her?"

Brittany wrinkled her nose at the thought. "No," she admitted, bringing her hands down. Even with the Intersect in her head, even with this new double life, there were things about her life now that she would never trade. "It's kind of weird, isn't it? To have this secret identity."

"You're a comic book hero," Rachel said, giggling as she nudged her. The laughter died down, and it occurred to Brittany that they looked so odd, standing there together, so much further than where they had been, and yet looking exactly the same. "You know Mercedes fainted when I told her about Santana," Rachel said suddenly. "At least I think she did. One minute she's gasping on the phone, and the next I hear a loud thump. She said it was a miracle and that it was just more proof that we all needed to pray as hard as she did."

Brittany shook her head. It felt kind of weird, honestly, to get Santana back just when she was getting used to the idea of Molly Chambers. In a way, it was like it was back when Santana had just finished her first tour of duty. Little things had to be relearned, like how to sleep with someone else without elbowing them in the gut, and sometimes Brittany would forget all over again, even for a moment, and she would wake up in her bed or go into the bathroom, and there Santana would be, like a beautiful ghost.

Those days she would attack her, push her up against a counter or fling away the sheets, embracing the joy and the relief that flooded her as easily and quickly as one of her flashes.

Those were the best kind of days.

But it came with a lot of explanations. Made up ones, huge honking lies, that came off like the plots to Rachel's soap opera, like how Santana sustained a brain injury on a super secret mission and was presumed dead, but really just lost all her memories, and just recently regained them and was honorably discharged from the army.

She got another award for it.

When they received it, Brittany put it next to her purple heart. Santana told her not to show it off.

"Too many people died for those, Brittany," she said, with a grim frown and a look in her eyes that told Brittany Santana had seen way too much of war. "I don't deserve it."

Brittany thought she did. Santana was dead and was reborn, and even though everyone thought she was just one of the two insanely hot girls working in a yogurt shop across the street from Brittany's Buy More, the truth was that Santana was her NSA handler and her wife, entrusted with saving her life and keeping Brittany's secret.

Like Batman.

A soft hand settled against her elbow, squeezing lightly, bringing her out of her thoughts.

Rachel was still there, standing beside her.

"You know, for a long time I didn't understand you guys. Especially in high school."

"It was high school," Brittany remarked. "Did we understand anything?"

A soft smile floated on Rachel's face, nodding her agreement. "Yeah, but, honestly I kind of felt sorry for you." The way she said it, with the condescending inflection and the way she kind of shrugged, was such a mimic of high school Rachel, that Brittany almost stepped away. "It's just that you were so obviously in love with her and Santana was so... Santana. I honestly didn't know what you could see in someone that..."

"Beautiful?"

"Calloused," Rachel corrected. "She just seemed to hurt you. Hurt everyone, and just not care."

High School Santana and Brittany, with linked pinkies and Cheerios uniforms, who walked through Lima like they were destined for and deserved something better.

"Santana cares," was all she said, and Rachel nodded.

"I know that now." Her smile was kind, but the sadness in Rachel's eyes didn't go away. "How did you forgive her? When she did to you what she did? You know... dying."

Rachel looked so desperate to understand, and it reminded Brittany suddenly of a long forgotten conversation, when Rachel came to her and asked her how she could watch Santana flirt with other boys and just not care.

Brittany remembered feeling sorry for her then, thinking she and Santana were the lucky ones.

Maybe they didn't turn out so lucky in other ways, but she understood that Rachel wasn't asking her because she didn't understand her and Santana.

It was because of Quinn. Lately, in the past month since things had settled, every high and low that Rachel had been feeling had to do with Quinn.

She was now Santana's new frozen yogurt shop co-owner, and a her new NSA partner.

Though Quinn hadn't said it, Brittany was sure that a large part of the reason she had requested to be placed with the Intersect task force was because of the Intersect's roommate, Rachel Berry.

"Quinn didn't run for a reason, Rachel," she said, and Rachel blinked, flushing as she laughed self consciously.

"Am I that transparent?"

"A little," Brittany admitted. "But I get it. What Quinn did is almost impossible to forgive."

"It's not just that..." Rachel whispered. She shifted on her feet, trying hard to put what she was feeling in words. "How can I ever respect myself if I even consider forgiving her? She made a fool of me, Brittany. She nearly killed all of us."

And that was true. Those were the simple facts.

But there were other facts to consider. Like how Quinn had turned her back on Fulcrum, and refused witness protection in order to work with the Intersect. Like how she was still a bitch, but always got a little softer every time Rachel came around.

Quinn wouldn't admit to being in love, not to any of them, but Santana hadn't told Brittany she loved her for years.

Brittany still knew. Just like she knew she would marry her, someday.

Maybe it wasn't the way she had dreamt it before, but Brittany had come to accept her terms.

Life was too short to do otherwise.

But that was her life. Her choice.

Rachel's decision was hers to make.

Brittany was done pushing anyone to any sort of destiny.

With a small, supportive smile, Brittany wrapped her arm around Rachel's shoulders and pulled her into her side, squeezing in sympathy.

Luminous eyes searched hers for some sort of direction.

"I don't even know her," Rachel whispered. "I don't know if I ever did."

Brittany rested her chin on the top of Rachel's head. To her, it seemed very simple. "Quinn seems to think you did."

Rachel exhaled loudly against her. "I should go," she whispered. "I'll see you tonight?"

"Totally."

In the wake of Rachel's departure, Brittany found her attention shifting from her movements in the mirror to the suddenly rising volume of the music that drifted from the bathroom.

The door had opened, bringing with it not only clear sounds of a softer, acoustic ballad, but Brittany's hot NSA wife, criminally sexual in tight black shorts and a tank top with the name of a Frozen Yogurt shop pasted across the chest.

Santana was always so,_ so_hot.

"You're so hot," Brittany whispered, with a cocky, proud smile.

Santana didn't respond. Instead, the other woman simply crossed her arms and regarded her, wearing a soft expression in place of her usual blasé smirk.

"What?" she asked self consciously.

Bony shoulders shifted up in a shrug, but Santana's smile was poignant. "You were dancing," she said, and nodded to the mirror. "It was nice."

That she hadn't even realized it was almost frightening. "I was?" she asked, and then turned back to the mirror, as if to confirm it.

All she saw was herself staring back at her, and the seductive form of Santana, who seemed content to just watch.

"You're gorgeous when you dance," she said, voice husky and eyes brilliantly moist.

The way Santana expressed it, with such obvious love and none of her old qualifications, caused a delicious tumble in Brittany's stomach.

"You make me feel like dancing," she said, because even though it was cheesy, it was true.

Though Brittany was sure she had heard, Santana did not move. Not at first. When she did, it was to head to her dresser and grab hold of a thick marker.

"What are you doing?"

"Something I've wanted to do for a while," Santana answered, with such a bossy tone she looked a picture of her high school self. "Ever since we were twelve and you had the gall to ask Mark to be your boyfriend instead of me."

Dark eyes glared at her pointedly, as slender fingers grabbed hold of her, turning her wrist until Brittany's forearm was exposed. With the concentration of an artist, Santana carefully pulled the cap off the marker and paused with the black felt tip against her skin.

Brittany's heart skipped a beat. "Santana..."

"Shut up," Santana twittered, focused entirely on her task.

Feeling lightheaded, Brittany obeyed, watching breathlessly as the letters formed, clean block letters that spelled out the name SANTANA from her wrist to her forearm.

Brittany had been branded. Santana inhaled in satisfaction, inspecting Brittany's arm to admire her work.

The way she was doing it, with such possession and obvious affection, was affecting. Brittany couldn't resist a teasing, trembling smile. "You didn't think a marriage certificate was good enough?"

"The marriage certificate says Molly Chambers and Brittany Pierce," Santana said matter-of-factly, and spread her fingers reverently over the marked skin, tracing her name. "This is for Santana Lopez." A moment later, her eyes lifted. "There's a lot of uncertainty in what we do, Brittany. I know that. But, after all we've been through... I'd rather you know."

Santana wasn't branding her for her own sake, but for Brittany's. It was the promise Santana made to never leave her again, in a contract signed with printed block letters and a marker on her skin.

"You're going to do this every day?" she whispered, a laugh in her voice.

"If you want me to," Santana confirmed. "But it'd be a bitch to wash off."

Brittany wondered suddenly if her Intersect-infected brain stood a chance of overloading like an over-heated hard-drive, because her heart felt ready to burst.

Deliberately, she slid her fingers against Santana's, entwining digits and smoothing her free hand against her lover's waist, drawing her in.

The beat of Santana's music had slowed, and Brittany felt it, as certainly as she felt the love she carried for her own immortal, who had died and been reborn.

Santana's eyes were liquid, full of warmth, and it was like a cherished gift, to see her this way, this vulnerable.

"Dance with me."

In their own tiny bedroom, amongst clothes and hidden guns, and the video cameras and bugs that had been planted courtesy of the US government, Brittany led Santana into an intimate series of steps.

There was still so much about the world that Brittany did not know, even with a brain full of government secrets. Things confused her more than ever, because even though Brittany could flash on something and almost immediately be able to fly a helicopter or hack a secure firewall, she could still confuse a calorie with a canopy. Math still made her cross-eyed.

But what she knew, absolutely, without a doubt, was that second chances were a rare and beautiful thing, and even with Intersects, spies, and double lives, she was very lucky indeed.

No matter what the future held for her, or Santana, Brittany would not forget this. Her arm would forever be branded with Santana's name, and in her heart she knew, just like Buttercup, that she would never doubt again.

When she twirled Santana in her arms, and led her into a bow, it was she who supported Santana with her strength.

As their heads lowered, Brittany suspected that if there really were a list of top ten kisses in the world, as had been described by _The Princess Bride_, theirs would have left them all in the dust.

They were bad ass like that.

* * *

><p>Quinn had suspected that life as a reformed good guy would be painfully boring.<p>

It wasn't. Not usually.

Not when she and Santana Lopez of all people had been charged with both the protection of the Intersect and the execution of her missions. Not when Brittany was the damn Intersect, who still was as dim as a Looney Tunes cartoon.

Not when her best friend was Rachel Berry, who avoided Quinn like she had the damn plague and looked at her with those soap opera eyes that struck Quinn breathless and reminded her all over again that she was the world's worst spy.

She had been seduced and hopelessly enamored by the same girl she abhorred in high school.

On busy days, it was manageable. Brittany's role as the Intersect meant missions that were both dangerous and intricate. The new partnership had been tested, and Quinn's immunity was based entirely on the success of keeping both Brittany and Santana alive.

In between missions, she was tasked with keeping her and Santana's cover—a self serve yogurt shop (with their base of operations underneath) that attracted more than a few nerdy Buy More employees thanks to the skimpy outfits.

That meant manual labor, with the world's laziest employee: Santana Lopez.

"So how long are you going to be playing the lovesick fool angle? Because it's boring enough in here without having to watch you mope."

For Quinn, being forced to partner with Santana in anything was sometimes worse than a prison sentence.

Now that Santana was a happy newlywed, with a cover that allowed her to be exactly who she was, and not a silly identity lifted off a Kings of Leon song, the haunted hero that Quinn had run into had dissolved into the Santana that Quinn recognized: a cocky bitch who had a snarky comment for damn near everything.

It was so irritating that Quinn had begun grinding her teeth again.

"God," she sighed, wiping furiously at the white plastic covers that held their marginally delicious frozen yogurt toppings. "It's so much harder to ignore you and not kill you when I have a gun and a license to do it," she mumbled.

Leaning against the counter, in the midst of filing her nails, Santana watched her work. "You do realize that this is just a cover, right?" Santana drawled. "The government could give a shit if the plastic stays shiny."

"I give a shit," Quinn snapped, and rubbed harder, trying hard to drown out the sound of Santana's snarky comments. "Gives me something to do while we wait for your wife to get a flash."

"Well," Santana sighed in agreement. "At least it's a switch from watching you sitting around watching Rachel's soap opera, looking like a pathetic puppy."

The irritation was hard to hide. "Look," she snapped, pausing to turn and offer a murderous glare to her partner. "It's not like you're twice as pathetic as I am over Brittany."

In high school, such a comment would have thrown Santana into a classic gay panic.

Now, Santana just absorbed it breezily, arching a smug brow. "So?" she asked, filing away at her nail. "I own that shit. I'm a fucking romantic hero." Quinn was nearly blinded by the white teeth Santana flashed at her. "You're just a bitch," she commented. "An emotionally stunted bitch at that. Seriously," Santana continued, lowering her hand to study her like she was a zoo animal. "When's the last time you had an actual meaningful relationship that didn't involve fucking them for Fulcrum?"

The heat that was blazing on Quinn's cheeks was mortifying. "Santana," she growled, slamming the plastic bin closed. "Don't."

"Sam? Finn?" Santana continued, determined to piss her off. "That's high school! That's pathetic, Quinn."

Had Quinn not been warned by Major Matthews that laying a hand on Santana would result in her getting locked up for the rest of her life, she would have already been planning on where to bury the body.

"I'm going downstairs," she muttered, determined to get away before her instincts got a hold of her and she tackled Santana like a linebacker.

"You want some advice?"

Quinn paused, turning back to cast the other woman an incredulous look. "From you?"

Santana rolled her eyes. "Look, I admit it's fun to torture you with this-" Quinn hitched in an exasperated sigh. "But I'm not exactly opposed to this you-and-Rachel thing." And that was unexpected. At her look of bewilderment, Santana simply shrugged. "The way I see it, it keeps her annoying ass busy, and it keeps you honest." The brunette extended her fingers and inspected her manicure. "Win-win."

Santana's simplistic reasons for dictating her lovelife were so damn... superficial, Quinn couldn't help but shake her head in annoyance, turning the knob and opening the door.

"You need to convince her she saw the real you." Eyes locked straight ahead of her, Quinn swallowed hard. With a deep breath, she turned back. Santana's hand was down, and her eyes were frank, as honest as Quinn had ever seen her. "She gave it up to you in less than 10 hours, Quinn. Obviously she saw something she liked."

"Seriously?" she asked, both disbelieving and a little suspicious.

Santana's attention span had already got the better of her, and she was back on her nails. "If that's the person you were, then that's who Rachel needs to see. She's looking for a reason to trust you, so give it to her." There was a beep of her cellphone. Santana blew on her nails and reached for the mobile. "It's Brittany."

Immediately, all thoughts of Rachel flew out of Quinn's mind. "Did she flash?"

"No, she's got a lunch break." Hopping off the stool, Santana headed for the exit. "She's coming over and we're gonna hook up. Stay out of the interrogation room, okay? The last thing we need is you watching us again."

Quinn flushed horribly. "That was an accident!" she yelled after her. "I'm still having nightmares!"

Santana twiddled her finger. "Right. Whatever. You know it was hot."

Quinn bit her lip and sighed.

Maybe jail would have been a better option.

* * *

><p>When Rachel first dreamed up the idea for the Glee Club Reunion Concert, it had been for Brittany's sake.<p>

It had been an attempt to allow Brittany to move on from Santana, in a way that would keep her memory cherished.

Now, as Rachel waited in the wings and watched Santana lift her head toward the bright lights and belt out that glory note that blended perfectly with Mercedes, she decided it was for all of them.

Rachel wasn't a secret agent, and she didn't hold all the government's secrets in her head. She was just a soap actor, and her show was probably getting canceled if the ratings didn't keep up. For the first time in her life, Rachel was devastatingly aware of her normalcy.

Oddly, it didn't bother her at all. In a way, it almost felt like she had her own special power. She could be the one with the level head. She could be the one who could remind them of where they all came from, who they had been, and retain that bond that had miraculously managed to stay strong in all of them.

Who would have thought a high school show choir had instilled enough heart and loyalty to withstand death, an evil terrorist organization, and a government conspiracy?

"You know, she's still the cockiest bitch I've ever met." Quinn, emerging from the shadows to stand beside her, watched Mercedes and Santana wail through their rendition of 'River Deep, Mountain High'.

Rachel's heart thumped in traitorous response. "She's also one of the most loyal," Rachel admitted, and as the words hung in the air between them, she realized how Quinn took them.

Rachel swallowed. The statement wasn't meant to be pointed at Quinn. Strangely, Rachel had lost the heart to be cruel to Quinn.

Though Rachel's heart still twinged from the heartbreak, at the very least, Quinn had proven a loyal guardian to Brittany, despite being the reason she needed a guardian in the first place.

"Look," Quinn began, voice more ragged than before. "Rachel-"

Panic disrupted any attempt Rachel would have made to listen. "I should really be saving my voice for my performance-"

Quinn's hand landed on her shoulder, stopping her escape. "This will just take a second. Okay?"

The way Quinn looked at her, with that sharp, pleading gaze and that soft, unsure pout, was a problem. It was a big problem, because it reminded Rachel so much of the person she had thought she had known, the one who had kissed her and made love to her and was flawed and lonely and exactly the person Rachel could love so easily.

Rachel didn't want to give in to her. Quinn had proven how good she was at lies.

Still, she was trapped. Ahead of her, Mercedes and Santana still moved through their best Tina Turner impressions, and behind them was a gaggle of New Directions alumni, including the awkwardness that came from associating with her ex, Finn Hudson.

Even with the lies, standing here with Quinn was where Rachel wanted to be. And it was frightening.

Flushed, Rachel crossed her arms and wordlessly nodded.

Now that she had stayed, she seemed to have rendered Quinn speechless. The devastatingly beautiful woman just looked at her, and it was so awkward, but Rachel didn't know how to make it better. All she could do was battle the lump in her throat and the pitter-patter of her heart, and tell herself to wait it out.

Finally, Quinn shifted on her feet and spoke. "What I said to you before?" she blurted. "That day? I said it because I was scared. Because it was what I thought it was I believed, but it was all lies, Rachel. Because somewhere in the midst of what happened, in between giving up my baby and trying so hard to never get hurt again, I lost control of myself. I didn't know who I was anymore, and I wanted that. I didn't want to have to feel that vulnerable ever again." Quinn sucked in her breath, looking terrified. "Except when that happens, Rachel, you get what you ask for. You're alone. And when you're the kind of person that I became, you don't even like yourself. It took you reminding me who I could be for me to see how lonely I really was."

Rachel didn't know what she could say. She was rendered speechless, and found her mouth dropping open in surprise when crystal eyes sparkled at her, and Quinn held out her hand.

"My name's Quinn Fabray," Quinn said unsteadily, a smile forming on her lips. "And I'd really like to get to know you, Rachel. If you would like to get to know me."

Rachel stared at the hand, at what Quinn was offering.

"How can I get to know someone who lives a double life?"

It was a valid question. Quinn was still a spy. She still lied, cheated and stole for what she wanted. The only difference was that now, it was with the government's authorization.

Quinn understood it. It showed in her faltering expression, and for the moment she looked awkward and desperately hopeful, with her hand still sticking straight out. Until her gaze hardened, and her chin lifted."What?" she asked, her voice growing sharp. "You think you and I can't pull off what Brittany and Santana have? They're emotional midgets, Rachel. Yesterday, we were infiltrating a gala and Brittany knocked over a priceless marble statue because she thought it was a mime."

The visual it produced was so Brittany and so comedic Rachel found herself chortling.

Quinn's smile grew, and her expression was brilliant and breathtaking.

The effect she had on Rachel was terrifying.

Rachel's laughter died. "Is that what this is about?" she asked carefully. "Beating Santana? Again?"

Quinn's eyes floated down to her hand, then to Rachel. "It used to be. It's not anymore."

"So what is this about?"

There was a moment, and then Quinn shrugged. "I want to win for once."

"What do you want to win?"

Blue eyes met hers with all the confidence and presence of a trained secret operative.

"You."

Rachel found her curiosity overcoming her hesitation. With a slow smirk, she uncrossed her arms and looked back, oddly combatant.

"Is that your way of saying you're in love with me?"

"Yes." Quinn's response was immediate. It knocked Rachel's haughty confidence askew. "Is this your dorky Rachel Berry way of saying you're not opposed?"

The hand was still there, unwavering, waiting for Rachel to take it. "It's my way of saying I want you to prove it," she admitted. With her heart in her throat, she waited.

Quinn smiled; an honest, beautiful smile that could have inspired sonnets. "Challenge accepted."

Rachel felt like a fool, but not the same fool as before.

This fool was a fool for love, and when she exhaled and slowly took hold of Quinn's palm, she felt it warm and strong, secure in her own.

Suddenly, she wasn't afraid anymore.

Santana and Mercedes' voices filled the hall with their powerful love song, and in the wings, Rachel found the strength to take that one momentous step towards a person who could very possibly become the love of her life.

Maybe thinking that was a bit over dramatic.

But it also felt so very real.

* * *

><p>The 'McKinley Show Choir Reunion—starring Rachel Berry from <em>Guiding Hope<em>!' had a surprisingly full audience. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Santana knew, was her father, with his thick, full head of hair and his third wife on his arm, watching Santana's wife with a gleam in his eyes and a proud, familiar smirk on his lips.

It was surreal, to think that this was her reality now.

"_You got so many colors make a blind man so confused,_" Santana heard, blaring over the auditorium, to the beat of a strumming electric guitar and a synthesized drum beat. "Then_ why can't I keep up when you're the only thing I lose?" _

It was a little cruel that 'I Don't Feel Like Dancing' by the Scissor Sisters had such a criminally enthusiastic beat.

The lyrics were more than a little haunting, and they meant more to Brittany than they should have. Santana could see it in her face, as an older Artie with weird facial hair crooned the high lyrics and Mike and Brittany twirled and popped around him.

_"So I'll just pretend that I know which way to bend, and I'm gonna tell the whole world that you're mine." _Artie's eyes drifted to Brittany. Santana couldn't help the small, petty thrill of possessiveness that coursed through her. Inked on Brittany's inner wrist, were the opening notes to 'Black Magic Woman', by Santana.

The long haired hippie singer. Not her. But still. It was awesome.

The backstage was blustering with activity, and from the audience came shrieks of approval, and a wolf whistle that Santana was sure came from either Dani or Bob, Brittany's lovesick Buy More employees. Every time Santana walked into the store in her skin-tight Yogurt Time outfit, she would get both glares and looks of appreciation.

It was amusing, but Santana's smirk quickly stalled when a sharp voice cut through the music, directly behind her.

"Well, isn't this a disappointment?" It was Sue Sylvester, wearing a Cheerios red jumpsuit and a scowl. In her hand was a plastic hand held blender, filled with protein shake. "I send you off to be a secret agent and eight years later, I find out you're gay married, scooping ice cream and playing back up in Rachel Berry's own Variety hour." Her old coach eyed her up and down, and the disdain on her face was hardly subtle. "Pathetic."

She pressed the button, and a whir buzzed, filling the air with a sound that used to put a chill down Santana's spine.

"It's frozen yogurt, actually," she corrected, and the sneer on Sue's face was almost comical to witness. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in Los Angeles picking up one of my many lifetime achievement awards when one of my very loyal alumni told me about this," Sue said, slurping a bit from her protein shake as she glared at her. "I had to see it to believe it," she snarled, stepping up close and studying every inch of Santana. "I should call the President and have that Purple Heart revoked. What a waste."

And of course, Sue Sylvester would see it that way.

Anyone who looked at Santana's life at the moment, with no knowledge of what hid in Brittany's brain and underneath the yogurt shop, would have the same reaction.

"_But I don't feel like dancin' when the old Joanna plays," _Finn blasted out, dancing as spastically as he did in high school. "_My heart could take a chance but my two feet can't find a way."_

Brittany twirled fast in Mike's arms, a smile growing on her fast as the sweat beaded on her forehead.

She was lost in the moment.

"_You think that I could muster up a little soft shoe gentle sway, but I don't feel like dancin', no sir, no dancin' today._"

"Coach Sylvester," she began, turning away from the stage to face the unknowing catalyst in her life. "Why did you pick me? Why not Quinn?"

Sue's stiff upper lip curled snidely, looking almost the very picture of an animated Grinch. "Because I tossed a coin, Santana," she snapped, "And you were heads. Plus," she continued, shaking her protein shake at her. "I had a diversity requirement to fill."

Santana's jaw dropped open. It couldn't have been that simple. The decision that changed the course of her life so drastically could not have been based on a simple coin toss and the tan color of her skin.

"Seriously?"

Sue Sylvester wore the ultimate poker face. "Did you think you were special?"

The music swelled, and Santana was distracted by the view on the stage. Brittany, body twisting as she flew into a perfect jump, caught safely in Mike's arms. Her heart swelled.

"Only compared to some," she quoted.

The glare she received from Sue Sylvester rivaled some of the worst she had received in her tenure as a Cheerio.

"Thank you, Coach," she said, as sincerely as she could. "For everything."

Maybe Sue had been expecting one of her old breakdowns, because her face dropped. She studied Santana suspiciously.

"You're welcome," was the wary response, before Sue decided to have nothing more to do with her, and turned on her heel, pushing aside a poor stage hand, barking about the terrible music and wasted investments.

Biting down a grin, Santana didn't bother to watch Sue Sylvester go.

Her life didn't depend on Sue Sylvester, and there were far more important things that could be done with something as precious as time.

Like watch Brittany dance.

**FIN**


End file.
